A Reason To Live
by demonkitsune31
Summary: Bakura lived solely for himself, that is, until he found the infant Ryou. Struck by his eyes, Bakura raises Ryou to budding adolescence. But when his sweet flower leaves the nest, can Bakura handle the change? NOT YAOI for once XD... Babes, i'm sorry but some of my page breaks didn't load on this story.
1. A Reason to Live

**A/N: (5-4-11) Carp, so what to put here? /THIS IS NOT YAOI/. Seriously, This fic was not meant to be yaoi or even hinting at it. But read it any way, I'm very proud of it. I tried to break from my stereotypical fanfiction type style and mixed a little bit of LittleKuriboh's style. Thank you to all my friends who read this while it was in process—and thought I had the fever cuz it wasn't yaoi. Oh, and I'm from Texas, I say things weird, get off my back -_- **

**Anime: Yu-Gi-Oh! by Takahashi Kazuhi, main characters: Yami Bakura and Ryou Bakura. I don't own. **

**Takes place a few years prior to the start of season one.**

**Tanoshimu!**

"**Not all families are born of seed and blood." – Ph****é****dre n****ό**** Delaunay**

•A Reason To Live •

_Heat. Fire. Bodies Tumbling into a pit, scrambling to crawl over one another to escape as skin melts and tears like paper, sinew cauterizing, becoming hard. A wife and a new born son. Death, death and decay, all the colors upon leaving all fade to grey…_

Until a flick of effulgent green passes in front of hazy eyes, time and time again in an endless waltz of terror.

2:58, the face reads, digital numbers swimming in his teary eyes, until, _blink_, it fades away and he sits up in bed. His hands find their way to his hair, tossing the cockamamie imparted spray of white, all bang and spike. It's perfect, despite havening been grinded in between the pillow and his seat drenched body.

He was, after all, a hard sleeper.

Again, again, and again, the incessant torment of night and the fantasies it brought with it because of _**him**_. _**His**_ memories, imparted to him by a god's divine will of incarnation, Ra be damned._** His **_memories of loss intermingled with his own retentions as his life stretched on and on…

He fumbled blindly over the crowded nightstand, littered with stuff he couldn't even tell where it had come from. A carton of cigs and a lighter, gripped tight and holding on for dear life. It was kissed between wide, thin lips, the cigarette about as long as his palm.

That was the good thing about Seneca Lights 1820's; they lasted.

A scratching click and a low whoosh and it was lit. The soft flame illuminated the room, the heat radiating in little spurts that caught the breeze off of the low ceiling fan hitting his face reminding him too much of the dream and he hurtled the lighter across the room. It hit the wall, more than likely spilling the oh-so-dangerous fluid. His body trembled violently as he held his hands to his temples, cigarette threatening to drop from his pale lips.

"_Cancer Sticks_," he remarked absently to himself.

If only he _could _get cancer, then he might actually have a damnable excuse for this self-pity that wormed its way into his gut; a parasite feeding off this wild complex that was his hormones.

Long, unbearably long life, filed with loss and sorrow, the fragility of mortals had killed of the emotions that made him human.

What was left were those of a monster.

Fear, hate, cowardice, resent, dread; he was a monster, wanting nothing more than to be human, the looking glass mocking him by showing him a copy of a human body, echoes of sanity.

The darkness was suffocating him, hot and arid despite the low whirring of the fan. He violently got up, heaving his body. He tripped through the dark over haphazard objects on the cluttered floor, finding the previous day's jeans and a pair of flip flops. Not bothering with a shirt, he donned his black trench, which he felt suited him; dark, a tangible representation of his soul inked by countless sin, too dark to go back.

Soon his feet were hitting wet pavement, a mobile carbon copy of the dark blanket above him with no set destination in mind. To just wander until his thoughts dwindled down to ash.

A bitter smirk warped his face as the irony donned on him.

He tore down desperate streets, cracked and hot from a summer's rain, not relinquishing the heat of the day to night. If it could just hang on, it would be reunited with the day once more.

Then 'it' happened. The incident that would forever change him, not in a minor way like a desperate need of a new haircut, but something cataclysmal, like the falling of an empire or the dying out of a species.

He tripped, too lost in thought to notice the lunk of dark plastic in the path way, falling to his knees. It jarred his from his thoughts, the impact absorbed through his wrists which were bent too far back, asphalt biting into his knees and rolling around in what was now raw flesh.

He gasped as his eyes opened, a natural reaction to a fall. His eyes met a smaller set, spit and image to his own.

'_An infant? Who leaves an infant out like this? I've seen some awful humans, but…_'

It blinked then reached up and grabbed him by the Sennen Ring that hung at his neck, the very object that never left and he forgot was there.

This infant, who shouldn't have the strength to grasp let alone pull, grabbed him by the very object that was the source of his misery and was pulling it away from him.

He picked it up, bringing it to his chest along with the Millennium Ring.

No. He couldn't. He could barely take care of himself, he had inner demons, hell, he _was_ a demon…

The infant laid its head on his chest sleepily. His hand found its way to the infant's hair…

Turning around, Bakura headed home, smiling for what had been the first time in years.

'_A delicate flower, for cultivating and cherishing._'


	2. Ryou

•Ryou•

The overhead light was dizzying as Bakura paced back and forth in his tiny kitchen/dining room. It was as if he had stood up too fast, his body feeling distorted, as if he had overly long limbs crowded into the small room, back pressed against the ceiling.

He paused, gripping the polished wood table in the center of the room with enough force to draw out a feeble groan from it. He looked down to the infant, which yawned with open eyes.

The eyes that were too intelligent for infancy, eyes that were so much like his yet so different. Innocence, that was the quality, he had decided, the infant was free of sin.

Had his own eyes ever looked like that? If they had he had lived too long to remember, too long dwelling in sin and depravity, he couldn't escape it, not when such anger had been imparted on to him… strong enough to cross the void.

The infant was wrapped in Bakura's coat, a makeshift cradle of sorts. Bakura had left the carrier on the road, the condemned disgusting contraption not fit to hold a child.

"You need a bath, don't you?" he spoke softly, a tone that somehow came natural when he look at it. Its eyes lit up at his voice.

Who knows how long it had been left out there, what corruption it had come from, even its health.

"You're an outcast like me."

It cooed in the way that babies do, understanding what the man above it meant.

This was crazy, he thought as he gathered the infant up into his arms, this stuff doesn't happen. No one picks up an infant off the side of the street. He hadn't even seen the surrounding area, too focused on his self-pity and depression. Maybe it was a convent, a place that could give this child a better life than he ever could. But something had clicked inside of him, something unknown but, _warm. _

A warmth he had never felt, all heat associated with the feel of burning, his wild dreams that plagued even his waking conscious, leaving Bakura with a needy love of the cold. The cold numbness of death, escaped, freedom that would never be his.

Bakura maneuvered through his cluttered room, Mount Everest worthy piles of clothes, media, bad pornos, barracks of clutter rising due to lack of care. Bakura spent most of his days lying in bed, the sweet prison confining him with imaginary ropes of apathy and fancies of withering away until he resembled nothing more than one of the dust rabbits that hid in the living room.

His room gave way to the single bathroom, plush carpet to tile. Holding the infant to his chest Bakura chunked his coat to his room, naturally not caring where it landed.

He took the infant's clothes off, dropping them into the rubbish bin. He would go and buy new clothes for it, not wanting anything dirty or unsafe near his flower.

"Oh, you're a boy. So you want a name, don't you?"

The infant laughed as Bakura switched arms to fill his sink with lukewarm water. His fingers piddled in the air water that was more white than clear due to the way that the faucet was shaped.

What was a good name for a child? When he thought on it he drew up blanks. He had segregated himself from humans, playing to his 'I'm a monster' delusions. What would be normal?

He laughed, cooing to the infant, "Like anything's normal."

The sink was full so he stopped the water, ears thankful for the absence of noise; lying in silence made for sensitive ears.

"Hmm, how about Raka?" He suggested, playing with the letters in his name.

It evoked no reaction from the infant as he turned around in a circle on one foot, half-heartedly dancing to the shower to retrieve a bar of soap (he grimaced at the white strand of hair on it; it was everywhere these days).

"No. How about Steve?" He laughed at the Americanized name, very strange to his ears.

The infant was dipped into the water, Bakura lathering soap in his hands. He had no worries of if it would be too strong; years of wear and tear had given him sensitive skin that led everything to leave him with a sensation akin to raking nails across a sun burn on your forearm.

He cocked his head at the soapy baby in the sink. "Well I didn't like it either."

He brought cupped handfuls of froth specked water across the infant's pale skin, the same hue of his own, his mind and unrestrained turbulent imagination letting the thought yield a fancy not untouched by whimsy. It was a flower, marble white with all the tender give of summer lilies growing in the humid air. As his thoughts spiraled into fantastical way, a flick of phonemes and syllabaries scratched at the surface, something not of him but _**him **_that bit at his tongue, eager.__

No, _**he **_wouldn't be a part of this infant, so unmixed with any other matter and free from taint, free from sin and anger.

Bakura hoisted the tiny infant up, beaded with crystals of light splashed water dripping from his tiny form free falling on the tile. He was stuffed into a massive black towel that would undoubtedly leave fuzz everywhere, but it was soft, absorbent and got the job done, so all-in-all it was okay.

The infant's eyes were droopy, headed toward a content sleep. Again, the scintilla of concept licked at Bakura's mind, making him visibly shake his head. No. _**He **_was not going to have anything to do with his flower.

But it was so perfect… so he caved.

"How about Ryou?"

The infant vocalized its happiness, then gave a delighted sneeze. Bakura smiled and his heart felt… _light. _A brand new exhilarating sensation brought on by this tiny being, with the gentle eyes antithesis to his own at the same time mirrored.

He laid the infant down on his bed as it drifted off to sleep. He then went to give his shabby house the deepest cleaning of its very long, dusty life, a sort of nesting if you will, for his Ryou.

He started by throwing his cigarettes in the rubbish bin. __


	3. Growth and Attachment

•Growth and Attachment•

Ryou grew quickly, faster than Bakura had expected. It left him with a feeling of loss, as if it was his only chance at raising an infant. But, all of his regret vanished once Ryou became of speaking age.

"Bakura," Bakura said to Ryou, who was sitting in front of his turned body being fed.

"Ba," Ryou repeated, his pretty eyes rolling up as he concentrated on the word that his mouth wouldn't let him form.

"Ba-kur-ah." He made sure to annunciate each syllabarie to show Ryou how to pronounce, which was hard seeing as he couldn't wipe the smile from his face.

"Kura," Ryou tried, more successful.

Bakura laughed, enthralled with Ryou's cuteness. "Better that time."

Ryou scowled and crossed his arms, quite proud of his efforts.

"Okay, let's try again, Bah-KUR-ah."

"Baka," Ryou said, then squeeled in sheer delight.

Bakura slapped his palm to his face, heel of it covering his eye. Great, he would have been fine with 'kura', but of all things Ryou could have picked he came up with Baka. Idiot. Oh well, Ryou was content and now way could Bakura sway him, not even by promising him a giant bowl of cappuccino chunky chocolate ice cream with all the gooey saccharine toppings he could want, which played to the overwhelming sweet tooth he was developing.

"Baka!" Ryou giggled, his shrill child laughter making Bakura laugh too.

"Come here, you dork," he managed to say through his laughter and swept Ryou from the chair into his arms, planting a kiss on his hair line, which was coming in white.

Ryou squeeled and hugged Bakura, then leaned back to kiss his nose, little tongue darting out to wet the tip.

"Did you lick me? Did you just lick me?" he play threatened, then taking them down to the floor to start a tickle war that would have them both laughing so hard they would lie panting in the floor, both actions cut by sharp yips of "Baka!" from Ryou.

Day by day Ryou wound himself deeper and deeper in Bakura, wrapping him around his tiny finger. Bakura was captivated by his purity, the way he held nothing back from himself, delighting in all his emotions, and was bound that this was a purity that would remain untainted.

Especially by him.

Bakura trained his mind and body to provide nothing but love and support, a stalwart figure for his flower to look up to and be protected by, a good example for the boy. It became everything to him, this flower, a small bud that blossomed and orchard of long-dead human emotions within his cold heart, everything and more. Bakura was now sleeping through the night, becoming a serene-faced cradle around Ryou as the low fan hummed above them.

Ryou fed from this, the constant praise and fun of having 'Baka' as his parent, a word not in his vocabulary. If you were to ask who his 'mommy' or 'daddy' or any of the thousand of similes to those was, he would merely cock his head at you in confusion. Were you to rephrase it to 'who takes care of you,' you would receive an excited "Baka!"

Bakura enriched the boy, imparting a curiosity on him, and generosity, qualities Bakura had seen the human race lose as the race to a finish line of destruction, a destruction he himself would've liked to bring about, were it not for his Ryou. Now he was focused on keeping Ryou from the septic society , in the dark about the true nature of humans. Not even _**his **_dark nature would show through Bakura to the boy.

They did everything together, neither of them liking solitude. Bakura, who truly tried his best, would cook dinner, Ryou standing on his feet trying to see until Bakura feared the boy would burn himself and picked him up, caving in and finally letting him stir whatever happened to be simmering in the pot that night. Ryou loved helping Bakura cook, loved the smells, loved how Bakura only held him around the waist so he could careen any which way he pleased to see what was going on in the pots, when he could have a turn to stir. It wasn't always the best tasting, or could you say it was never burned, but Bakura made sure Ryou got all the nutrients he needed.

He too was getting the proper nutrition too, he noticed one day while admiring the tight curve of his stomach in the bathroom mirror. He had filled out in the time he had Ryou, no longer looking sick and malnourished, nothing but a sack of bones in skin confinement. He looked healthy.

Ryou barged into the bathroom, equally as nude as Bakura.

"Bath time!" he had cheered, going to Bakura's side in the mirror.

Quotidian his beauty grew, his hair coming in at the purest white, face gaining the soft definition of late childhood. Cream stretched across strong healthy bones, vibrant muscle, with a healthy glow like that of moon light. One would perhaps suppose he was an albino, and indeed his skin was surpassingly fair, but his eyes were dark, dark as bluets at midnight.

The eyes that grew more innocent by each day, wide with a simple wonder of the world and new things learned. He was a beautiful thing, pleasing, graceful, so many things that gave him his purity. He had a crystal face, clear and sculpted with a quality of simplicity; free from guile or cunning. He reflected all of the sun's rays, so beautifully white in all its contexts, giving off a warmth that radiated from his soul.

His flower grew so prettily, but Bakura saw one little petal that needed to be pruned; the fact that Ryou looked exactly like him. It was as though Ryou was copied ver batim from Bakura, so much so that they could pass for father and son. Bakura was so his father in every sense of the word, yet they shared no blood. So that left one explanation, one that chilled Bakura to the bone and made him turn away from the mirror.

That Ryou, he too, was an incarnation of the Thief King.

But, it seemed that he stemmed from a different soul fragment. The piece that held _his _love that was torn away by the Pharaoh, the love that was lost with the death of his people. Ryou what Bakura would have been if not afflicted with immortality.

The hate of the Thief King.

But what if Ryou too was immortal?

Bakura shook himself of those thoughts as he placed a hand on Ryou's shoulder. "Come, vanity doesn't suit you."

"Oh, Baka!" he laughed his high, twinkling laughter, "I would never be vain! I just like looking at us together, it's like a mirror!"

Bakura visibly started, thankful that Ryou didn't notice, he was too busy pattering across the tile to jump into the shower. He followed Ryou, leaning over him to adjust the water taps that Ryou carelessly twisted, threatening to either freeze them to death or cook them like lobsters. Bakura internally scolded himself, he wasn't going to let _him_, whom he had reverted back to not using _his _name, ruin his time with Ryou. If he was immortal then they would have each other, if not, well Bakura wasn't going to think about that. He didn't allow those dark thoughts that rose up and seductively consumed him to drag him down into an inescapable pit in which he would drown in depression to affect him anymore.

Ryou scrubbed his hands over his face to push back his now matted tangle of white hair that hid his face from view. Bakura chuckled and shook his head, the reached for the shampoo bottle that rested in the built-in shower shelf and poured a goopy handful of orange shampoo, silky ribbons of hue mixed through it. It was lathered in between his palms and rubbed into Ryou's hair.

Ryou sighed in contentment. "Ah, Baka, I love when you wash my hair!"

"Dork," he snorted. "Here, you wash now." He extricated his hands from the boy's hair and pored another handful of orange goop.

"Aww…," Ryou whined. "I hope my hair comes out as white as yours."

"It will, when you wash out all of that dirt. What exactly did you do today?"

Ryou began making a white cascade of effervescence around his head, pulling it up into one spike of ebullition.

"Well, when you were making supper I went and played outside."

"Oh, so that's where you were," Bakura said as he smacked his palm down on the spike, giving they boy a stern look that he could barely keep a straight face through, that told him unvoiced to wash his hair.

"Yep," he beamed, all discountenance about his lost hair-spike forgotten as he continued on with his story, "I finally climbed to the top of the tree!"

"I'm proud, but be careful."

"The carefulest!" he protested.

Bakura smile and moved Ryou aside to rinse his own hair, using one hand to give Ryou a bar of soap and a washrag.

"What else?" he asked, delighting the boy's need for attention.

"I finished the problems you assigned me for homework."

"Good." Bakura approved. Though he may not like it, Ryou took his home schooling very seriously.

"And I also found a sy—sino—cinnamon-"

"Synonym."

"Yeah! Synonym for dork, you know, 'cause that's what you always call me."

"Yeah? Well let's hear it."

"Ignoramus!"

Ryou beamed, proud that he pronounced such a large word. (What he wasn't going to tell Bakura was that he used their out-dated computer's voice feature.)

Bakura slapped his forehead. "You are not an ignoramus, dork. They have two completely different connotations, meaning how you use them. Ignoramus is a mean thing to call someone."

He knew, Bakura was a master of colorful insults.

Ryou looked down right appalled, as though he had said a bad word.

"But when I call you a dork it means 'my-little-ball-of-randomness-and-light-of-my-life-little-space-cadet,' got it?"

"So it means you love me, right?"

Bakura was surprised at the analogy Ryou had made, but supposed it to be true and laughed. "Yes."

"Yay!" he cheered, doing a happy dance.

Bakura planted a kiss to Ryou's hair line, something these days he couldn't refrain from doing to the little fur ball, and, tasting soap, leaned down to pick up a plastic cup from some unimportant take-out place and filled it, then dumped it over Ryou's head.

He sputtered, little pink lips the only thing discernable from the white mask covering his face. "Baka! That was mean!"

"You had soap in your hair," he said, putting on a front to make it seem like he was scolding the boy.

"I wasn't done washing. I-"

"Got too caught up in talking. Make sure to wash it out, or your hair will turn yellow. And not a blonde yellow, a yellow the color of old lady toenails!"

His eyes went wide, and having what was comparable to the fear of god put in him, snatched the cup from Bakura and began pouring waves of water over himself.

Bakura laughed silently to himself, sure he would never have to worry about Ryou washing all the soap out again. That was his naïve little flower for you, and he secretly prayed that Ryou would never grow out of it. Time was of no object to Bakura, but it seemed that Ryou was growing too fast, his childhood slipping like sands through an hourglass through his hands, too fast, it seemed he would close his eyes and it would all be gone.

From when they first met, he blinked, and it was fifteen years later.


	4. Fabrications of a New Beginning

•Fabrications of a New Beginning•

A frown crossed Bakura's pale features as he surfaced from a deep slumber. He stubbornly clung to it, not wanting to relinquish the light feel in his chest, the heavy feel of languid limbs, the sheer comfort of closed eyes. He rolled over to reach for Ryou, seeking warmth. His hand ran across a lump in the bed, his forearm stretched across it and he felt not the warm touch of flesh, but the cold indifference of cloth.

He woke up alone.

He sat up harshly, flailing limbs into an upright position. Adrenaline pounded in his heart, clouding his mind and making his thoughts wild. Had it all been a dream? Had his mind played a cruel trick on him by fabricating a wonderful child then taking him away? Never, never in all these short years he had Ryou had he _ever_ woken up alone. More often than not it was Bakura who had to wake Ryou up because, according to him, he 'slept like a demon'.

Bakura flung himself out of bed, opening the door that led to the staircase. He took them two at a time, frantic in his fear, but halted halfway. Or rather, he couldn't move.

Ryou stood in the kitchen, turned sideways to Bakura. Lurid streaks of light shattered softly through the dusty sink window beating down on spiraling notes of miniature scale planets which haloed around Bakura, drawn by the gravity of his beauty. He tucked an errant strand of his white hair behind his ear, the strands twisted and caressed between his fingers near invisible, the rest like a curtain of opalescent milk about his shoulders. He was dressed in a blue, deep as ocean's hue, uniform, crisp, clean, tight fibers visible where the sun lighted his small frame. Ryou turned slightly, movements so slow and graceful, and his eyes tossed to Bakura, their dark depths swimming with a light that spiraled and kissed the outer never-lands of the irises. Bakura felt a deep pang within his chest, witnessing this heart-breaking capture of adolescence.

"Baka," he seemed to breathe, a soft gasp of air on his lips.

"R—Ryou…" Bakura managed to spit out.

When? When had Ryou managed to grow so much with out him knowing, even though he was continuously under Bakura's keen gaze? When had the intelligent infant, the wild boy, when had his sweet flower fully blossomed into this breath-taking youth? Fifteen, fifteen short years, how had he not noticed the change in his Ryou so care fully cultivated?

Bakura tripped over himself to Ryou, sweeping the boy into his arms and planting a warm good morning

kiss on his forehead.

"Good morning, Baka. Today is my first day of high school." Ryou knew that Bakura already knew that, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

"I had forgotten…" Bakura murmured, inhaling his clean scent.

Ninth grade. High school. A crucible Bakura never thought he would have to cross, sending a child away. Bakura had schooled him well past that grade, Ryou's thirst for knowledge unsatiable, but one thirst Bakura couldn't sate his thirst for companionship, his curiosity of people his own age.

Thus the high school solution was construed.

It was an intense, stressful ordeal. Bakura whittled away the late hours of the night into a bright, bitter dawn fabricating birth certificates, socials, evidence of birth and life that did not exist, no, not even _made_ to exist. His eyes were bloodshot from staring at the seraphic computer screen, strained and burning while Ryou slept peacefully in the bed. Unknown to him, Ryou stayed awake watching him, measuring the occasional clicks of the mouse, the tap of calloused fingers across loose keys, then the soft steady breaths emitted from Bakura until they stretched longer and longer, his mind finally giving up on the day and he fell asleep in his chair. Ryou would then rise from his pillowy confines and tip-toe down stairs and set up the coffee machine that Bakura had been too sleepy and busy to remember. The he would bound up the stairs – like a puppy because quite frankly, he felt it was the _only _way to go up— and go to Bakura, rub his stiff shoulders, then roll his chair bedside and heft him up on to his side of the bed. He'd put him the way he liked to sleep—on his back halfway rolled over so he could put his arm over Ryou—then moved he chair back to the desk and flick of the monitor. Then he would dive under Bakura's arm and curl up against him, pulling the fluffy beige down comforter over then and feeling safe, not able to imagine himself any other way, completely attached to Bakura. Bakura would wake in the morning just figuring he didn't remember crawling into bed, but worried about the light smudges under Ryou's eyes. But, in time, Bakura had fabricated all the necessary material's for Ryou to begin high school as a ninth grader.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Bakura inquired, knowing the boy probably had.

"Yes, and there is some left on the stove fore you. I made your favorite," he motioned to the gooey stack of French toast, the vanilla/egg soaked pabulum laden with sprinkles of powdered sugar.

Bakura chuckled, French toast was indeed his favorite, but he preferred it very bland and fully cooked, but Ryou, however, who had been taking over the cooking lately, had that damnable sweet tooth that influenced everything he put in his mouth.

"My favorite? But today is _your_ special day."

"Oh no!" he stammered, "It's fine! I like French toast, too!"

Things seemed tense today, Ryou strung high with nerves about his very first day at a public school, his first time being exposed to his own age group, exposed to people in general, and Bakura had a heavy feeling of apprehension in his stomach; So many questions rampant in his mind, would Ryou be liked? Naturally, but children can be malicious.

Bakura took a deep, calming breath, shakier than he would have liked. "Thank you, Ryou, let me wolf some down and I'll drive you to school."

Ryou smiled serenely, close-eyed and whole hearted. He stood on his toes, still achromatic in the sunlight, and kissed Bakura on the cheek.

"You're welcome, Baka, I'll go put my things in the car."

Ryou stepped out from his ethereal dimension to head to the garage.

Bakura walked over to the stove and picked up the yellow ceramic plate Ryou had prepared for him. He had no desire to eat, but he knew he had to get at least a little something on his stomach before his nerves ate through it and he was laid up in bed for three days. He turned his fork on its side once he sat down and tore into the runny toast, fearing for his taste buds as he put the mawkish substance in his mouth.

It surprisingly wasn't as sweet as Ryou normally prepared it, an Bakura vaguely wondered if Ryou's stomach, too, had been wild with nerves. He dismissed it and swallowed the rest of the toast, standing with the plate and dropping it in the sink to be washed later. He crossed the dining room into the utility room, finding a crisp white tee and a pair of khakis, and, pulling them on, grabbed his light blue jacket, finding the keys to the car in his pocket.

He descended into the musty, seldom used garage that housed his musty, seldom used car. It was grey, still shiny, and gave him the feel of wet thunderclouds.

He found Ryou quietly waiting in the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap.

"You ready?" Bakura asked as he slipped into the driver's seat, smooth grey leather cool against his body.

Ryou nodded, not able to muster up much of a voice.

The drive was quiet, grey blurs indistinguishable from the now grey sky, the temperamental September weather flitting from vibrant day to a stormy what-the-hell-ever that made Bakura irritable with the onset of arthritis. His body quit ageing at 30, and he had been healthy. There was no excuse for this damnable soreness.

Bakura sighed, neck hurting, and tried not to let thoughts of Ryou depress him.

"Um, Baka, we're nearing the turn…"

Bakura snapped back from his thoughts, and in his daze was hitting near 90.

"Ah sh―" he stopped himself from swearing for Ryou's sake and flung his arm against the boy's chest to hold him back as he slammed on the breaks.

Bakura panted, the adrenaline dying down. '_Baka!_' he yelled at himself, screaming at the top of his lungs in his mind. Stupid! He was so damned stupid, how could he have not been paying attention like that? He could have gotten both of them killed!

He felt Ryou's tiny heart thudding harshly through his arm, the quick heave of his chest.

"Are you okay?" he managed to say, voice cracking as the tide of adrenaline receded.

Ryou swallowed audibly. "Mhm…"

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention. I didn't mean to speed, I'm sorry, Ryou."

"No, Baka, it's fine." '_What really scared me was you… You looked so angry…_'

Bakura inhaled through his nose a shaky breath. It seemed these days the only breaths he could take normally were shallow.

He turned into the drive of the massive school, jawline tight.

Ryou squirmed a little as Bakura pulled into the line of cars waiting to drop students off. Finally, after about five minutes of start-stopping as parents cried and blubbered over their children leaving, it was their turn.

Ryou heaved a deep breath, straightening his back and closing his eyes, then pushed it out in a new-found composure.

"Ready?" Bakura smiled, praying Ryou was because he sure as hell wasn't.

"Uh, well enough," he laughed shyly, closing his lovely eyes.

Bakura laughed at his sweet flower, so pure in his emotions. "Good luck, dork. I'm proud of you."

Ryou nodded and picked up his bag off the floor board, tucking the strap on his shoulder in preparation to stand up. He opened the door.

Bakura stopped him. "Ryou, remember, you are my reason for living."

This prompted Ryou to sit back down. It was something he had heard Bakura say many times over in his life, but no matter how many times this strong man whom he looked up to told him this, it never lessened the effect. He got butterflies in his stomach and his heart would swell until he had a physical pang in his chest: that was the only way he could describe the sensation of being adored by the very person whom he idolized and wanted to be just like. Ryou leaned over and kissed Bakura on the cheek.

"I love you, Baka."

Four small words that held so much meaning, so much back story for the two of them, four small words that moved Bakura's cool heart. He smoothed back Ryou's bags and kissed his snowy hair line.

"You too, Ryou, you too."


	5. Nerves

•Nerves•

Bakura was sick with worry. No, more than sick, he was nauseated and feverish.

Today was already off to a bad start between the wakey-wakey eggs and adrenaline rush and the breath-taking, heart-rendering, realization of Ryou's adolescence that sent him into such a despondency he couldn't even concentrate on his driving. Ryou had escaped his cage ― for the moment in Bakura's fantastical mind he had become a bird rather than a flower due to an increase in mobility ― a wonderful, spacious cage of the loveliest albescent metal that was Bakura's stalwart protection. There was a never ending soul-shaking, mind-wracking surgance of tsunamis of thought and tiding emotions, the hyper sensitive emotional ocean thrown out of step by the loss of its vascular moon as his heart and mind were disjointed.

His body trembled all the way through his hands, which threatened to slip from the now sweat drowned porcelain of the bathroom sink. Today, for the very first time in fifteen years, he would be without Ryou. He was always with Ryou; through the annual doctor visits and shots, through all the erratic developmental stages of childhood, to the once-in-a-blue-moon times when the boy got sick. (Those times in which when Ryou got better Bakura, who hadn't gotten sick in all the time of his life, had to feign ailment so the boy could take care of him, playing doctor, then sufficiently pleased when his 'spoonful of _medicine _helps the medicine go down' treatment worked.)

It felt, however, more like a loss than a break in routine, like he was somehow never going to get his sweet Ryou back…

And that scared him

It was loud, loud enough to mask out the thundering of his heart in his ears.

Ryou just happened to be assigned a seat in the midst of all the chaos, as though he was in a dark valley surrounded on all sides by the threatening spikes of a cliff. In an attempt to distract himself from his irrational fear he looked around, observant, calculating eyes that always were breaking down everything he saw. Two guys sat on top of their desks by the window, looking thick as thieves, tough and harsh. One was blonde, which probably meant he was probably half-American, or it was dyed, and the other had gelled his hair up into one spike on the top of his head. Behind them was a short boy tinkering with some three-dimensional puzzles pieces out of a gold box. He kept turning to look at a girl who sat a little behind Ryou, which he turned around partially to see. She was plain, cropped brown hair that parted in the middle, and one of the only ones out of the student body who wore their uniform correctly, the blue buttoned over the white. She didn't interest him near as much as the gloomy kid sitting in the very back with his arms crossed did. His brown hair snarled over his forehead, broken only by icy blue eyes.

'_If looks could kill…_'

The other students consisted of burly guys that Ryou knew he would want to avoid at all costs.

The teacher entered the room and quieted the chaos, sending the demons back to their desks.

"Hello, for those of you who do not know, I am Mr. Kiyoteru. We have a new student who transferred in; Ryou, would you please come up and introduce yourself?"

His eyes went wide and a gasp fell through his lips. The teacher who had just saved him from the ear shattering pandemonium was throwing him to the dogs! He rose, awkwardly in his shyness, making the desk clatter loudly against the linoleum. His breath hitched with a new-fangled case of agoraphobia, his heart going frantic with fear of embarrassment, ridicule, people in general, all irrational, but he knew not what to do with it. His stomach heaved with acid that ate at his body, the product of fear.

"Um… hello, my name is Ryou Bakura. I am 15."

"Good, thank you, Ryou," Mr. Kiyoteru smiled. "You may sit back down."

Ryou sat back down and went to his desk a little faster than what could be called normal.

They continued on and began the day's lesson, starting with algebra, Ryou finding solace in the numbers and meaningless variables and exponents. He hated math, possibly the only thing he had ever had a dislike for, but Bakura had taught him how to do all sorts of algebraic equations so he didn't struggle. After that, they began translating a piece of literature from Japanese to English, which through Bakura, he was near fluent in.

"Would someone please translate the fifth line?" Mr. Kiyoteru asked, the hidden threat of if no one volunteered he would begin to call on people.

Ryou's eyes swiveled back and forth; no one was volunteering. That line was easy, painfully so. His hand slowly rose.

"Ah, yes, Ryou."

He cleared his throat. "Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess. We seek it thus, and take to the sky. Ripples form on the water's surface. The wandering soul knows no rest."

"Perfect! That was absolutely stunning! My, Ryou, have you read this piece before?" Mr. Kiyoteru beamed.

Ryou blushed, having never received praise from anyone but Bakura. "No, Sir, I haven't. But I am near fluent in English."

"Ah, so you had an advantage," he chuckled. "Very well, you may sit down."

Ryou sat and smiled, ignoring all of the stares coming from the other students.

He began to ease.

Bakura laid into the accelerator, easily hitting 70… 75… 80, until he was pushing 90. He was damn well going to be the first in line for pick-up; without Ryou he was going bloody mental. One request he would not delight of Ryou's was riding the bus home. The was no way in _hell_ Bakura was going to put Ryou's life in someone else's hands, especially when it involved a giant metal death trap that was somehow deemed suitable for public transportation. He was nearing that damnable turn that could have injured his flower, and in a sheer act of defiance hit it full on at 98 miles per hour, careening the vehicle onto two wheels. The veins in his arms and neck throbbed, visible, and his eyes unearthly in the way the hazed over, product of a near mental break down. He neared the front of the school, his speed dwindling. He was indeed the first in line, 30 minutes early. The Sennen Ring, that was so permanently a part of him that he often forgot it was there , was seized in his fierce grasp as Bakura tried to calm himself, the strong metal not lending any give instead just absorbing the strain of a mad man.

He lost himself in measured breaths, forgetting the sun that burned his skin, the adrenaline that tore up his stomach. For how long he was gone he didn't know, nor did he care as long as he could keep seeing visions of Ryou amidst a field of flowers. His eyes clicked open as he was roused from waking dreams by a tapping on his window. Light filtered into cavernous pupils and Ryou's face flared into existence. Bakura sat his seat up quickly and scrambled as fast as he could to hit the button that would unlock this cage that was holding him and let his sweet savior Ryou in.

"Baka! I missed you!" He squealed, all but jumping into the car.

Bakura pulled the boy closer as though he could absorb the boy and never let go. "You have no idea, dork."

He pushed his lips against Ryou's white hairline, hands pressed into the sway of his back. This overwhelming paternal aggression ― aggression, not affection, no, it was much too violent ― surged whenever he came into contact with Ryou, as an obsessive need to protect his delicate flower. The boy managed to free his arms enough to softly return the embrace.

"Oooh! Look at Ryou and his boyfriend! He's got a Lolita-complex!" Some boy in a group of passing students wolf whistled.

Ryou jumped and turned as far back as Bakura's tight grasp would allow him. He didn't know what most of those words they had said meant, but he suddenly felt embarrassed to be seen hugging Bakura, which scared him almost as much as the pale man's face. Bakura had gone white with rage and was convulsing with anger, looking to kill.

"No, Baka, let's just go home," his voice was small, "please…"

Bakura let him go and moved into the driver's seat to make himself as small as he could.

"Baka… what did those boys mean when they said you were my 'boyfriend'? And that you has a lo… Lolita-complex?"

Bakura stiffened. "Don't listen to those boys." _Fucking humans will pick on anything different! _"They were just trying to get people to laugh."

Ryou, scared more, still pressed on. "But what did they mean?"

Bakura growled, compelled to do whatever his flower wanted, and right now he wanted answers. He tried to word it in a way Ryou would understand. "They meant we were in love."

"But Baka!" Ryou cried, appalled, "I do love you! And you love me too right?"

"No!" Bakura snapped in a vicious snarl, making Ryou jump back and whimper. "They meant a different kind of love! A tainted kind that ruins people, parasitic and sick!"

Bakura went off into angry mutterings, using more words Ryou didn't understand. He didn't understand what type of love Bakura had meant, because honestly he couldn't think of any kind of love that was bad, but the again Bakura knew everything so he dropped it. He was scared; never had he seen Bakura like this, ever. His second question had gone unanswered, but he didn't care. He didn't want to ask anymore.

He felt like crying.


	6. Cooking and Crying

•Cooking and Crying•

The feeling of constriction didn't leave Ryou even with the help of the quiet drive; the tension was too thick.

Bakura was seething, a molten tide of fury clearly spilling over his normal parameters. Ryou was shaking softly in fear at this new, foreign Bakura. Where was this anger, which had never been present before, stemming from? Ryou set his jaw tight, clenching his teeth in an attempt to hold his tears at bay. Bakura had calmed enough to loosen his grip on the pitiful wheel and he reached out to Ryou, eyes not leaving the road, to stroke his cheek with the back of his hand. The touch startled Ryou, rousing him from deep thought too quickly, making him jump. Bakura drew his hand back, his eyes wide with something akin to fear that Ryou didn't understand. That was another thing that didn't help Ryou's mood: the not understanding. He loathed it; it made him feel confused and stupid.

It made him feel ignorant.

Ryou was quiet; a bitter chill seemed to come from him. Bakura was shaking violently in anger at the reaction Ryou had given. Not in anger at Ryou, anger in the change. He _hated _humans, _hated_. Were it not for those dense, thick-witted fools trying to get a laugh as his flower's expense, Ryou wouldn't have had that damned infirmity seep into his mind: doubt. The infernal parasite that made him misconstrue the purest of his emotions, feeding upon emotions Ryou wouldn't even have if it weren't for this accursed day. Never had Ryou drawn away from Bakura, never had the boy blushed in that way before. He had never blushed in shame before. He was so close, ever so nigh to letting it consume him, to let the tears flow freely as his body tried to rid itself of these envenomed hormones before he could do any real damage, to let his voice take on that dangerous, otherworldly tone that he hadn't even know he could muster. To completely let loose and succumb to those darker thoughts of destruction and fire.

But he couldn't, not with Ryou, not with this delicate bundle of sensitivity and naiveté, his petal-soft child that danced amongst wonder and delight in his mind. Ryou was the only source of light in his life; his reason for living.

The next thing he knew they were in the garage.

"Baka," Ryou's voice had stirred him, "is it okay if I go ahead and begin cooking? I'm pretty hungry today from school."

"Yeah," he agreed, distanced. "Whatever you want, sweet."

Ryou exited the car, leaving Bakura to simmer in rage.

He needed an escape, something he could distract himself with from this sadness. Ryou didn't know how to cope with it; it was too massive in comparison to the soft ripples of sadness he got as a child when Bakura told him 'No' to ice cream or sweets before dinner; This was serious.

He shut the garage door behind him and only made it to the kitchen before his shoulder hit the wall and his body slumped. He gnashed his teeth together, struggling not to cry. It was so painful, his heart, and his eyes stung. His body trembled violently, and felt as though he had been overdosing on caffeine all day and now he was hitting his crash. He had to find something to make it look like his tears were plausible. '_Onions!_' he thought with a gasp, stumbling to the cabinet beside the counter. He found them on the bottom shelf, taking three, and then went back to the counter and pulled a large chopping knife from the knife block. Juggling the items in his arms he retrieved a cutting board sheet and a bowl from the cabinet and sat down at the table. His knife went crazy, and, from the first berserk chop, so did his tears. He chopped the top off to peel the onion, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Chop! _Half, curse school. Chop! Fourths, curse those boys! Chop! Little pieces, curse this feeling!_ His eyes were pouring as his body finally took its emotional catharsis. His sobs were violent, hiccupping. Crying is always portrayed as beautiful, but this was not; it was painful, and Ryou looked as though he was going to shatter as his naïve self chipped away.

The door opened and closed.

"Ryou…" came Bakura's voice across the room, silky despite the evident pain.

"Onions," he sniffed, a pitiful explanation, "they're strong this time of year."

Bakura's heart broke… What was the _one _thing he had promised wouldn't happen? That Ryou's innocence would remain, but now it was marred. Marred and broke because of him. The boy was sitting here crying, because of him. They boy was sitting here crying, because of him. He was hiding his feelings because of him.

He went up behind Ryou, drawing strong, protective arms around the boy letting the warmth seep into him. He brought his thumb to the groove of Ryou's eye and soft cheek to clear away the tears. He buried his face in Ryou's thick hair.

"I know those tears aren't from onions," he breathed softly.

Ryou's eyes went wide and his jaw fell, soft mouth going agape in shock.

"I'm sorry, Ryou. I'm sorry I got so angry. I'm sorry I made you cry."

Ryou felt his hair stir three times, warm, then wet. He turned around, still locked in Bakura's embrace, his grace punctuated only by the quiet rustle of fabric. His eyes met Bakura's mirror face, losing himself in the chocolate pools so like his own, yet so different; Bakura's eyes were dark with knowledge, tempting Ryou's wild hunger; Eyes that were now brimming with tears.

"Oh, Baka!" he cried, getting up on his knees, blossoming from Bakura's arms to wrap his own around the taller man's neck. He felt safe now, safe and special in Bakura's arms, feeling his strong warmth around his back, feeling the thrumming beat of his heart against his cheek. He pressed a kiss to Bakura's cheek.

"It's okay, Baka, I promise. It's not your fault. I know you did it because you care." He melded into Bakura after breathing his forgiving words. "I love you."

Bakura hummed in contentment, growling almost. "You are my reason for living."

Ryou gasped as he felt the familiar, fleeting feeling take hold of him, his knees going weak and body going slack, delicately wilted against Bakura's body.

"I love you." Bakura sighed, bringing Ryou back, "Go upstairs and wash your face. We'll cook super like we used to."

Ryou grinned, scrambling from Bakura's arms and bounding upstairs.


	7. Living hell, Round Two

•Living Hell, Round Two•

Another day sprawled into existence like plumes of clove smoke, winding and stepping through the air in a waltz fit for a goblin ball. It cut through time like a never ending gaze to drag on forever. Forever to prolong this torture.

On cannot imagine the desolation of being alone when surrounded by people until it is experienced; The way your throat constricts when in the midst of people who couldn't care if you spontaneously combusted right there. In all its beauty, being alone is desolate.

Ryou was an island unto himself amid a treacherous ocean. For all the world he looked like a helpless puppy, face showing a bare scratching of the surface of the emotional storm that came down like a tidal wave within him as sadness swept over him. Today the boy had put on a mask of bravery to staunch the fear that bled out from him, trying to tourniquet the anxiety. Today, he had planned to make friends, to finally unconsciously quench the subconscious desire for companionship of a different level than what Bakura could give. Today the boy was just as alone as yesterday. The class had broken down into stereotypical cliques that would do a low-budget Monday night sitcom proud, Ryou at the epicenter. Silence haunted his insides, the roar of twenty-plus voices deadened by the fear twinged sadness that gnawed at his body. A boy, who had been showered in torrential praise and affection, given all the attention he could ask for, given whenever needed, whenever wanted, lost it all in this room of dogs. He put his head down to hide his face as tears threatened to spill from his wide eyes; he wanted his Baka. He wanted to turn to dust and escape these feelings, these people…

"Aw, hell! Beat me again, Yug's."

"I just believe in my deck."

Ryou was woken from a trance by the two voices. He turned his head to look; It was the blonde boy and the boy with the puzzle.

"Are you still going on about that 'Heart of the Cards' crap?" the blonde scoffed. His accent was so thick he _had _to be American.

"It's true!" puzzle-boy protested.

Ryou found himself moving towards them, legs perambulant of their own accord. He stopped just before his thighs hit the two desks that were pushed together to form a haphazard , makeshift table. A paper mat buried the table seam, colorful in its swirlings of browns with patches of purple. Small rectangular cards were stacked in a pattern that made no sense to Ryou's foreign eyes.

"Erm, excuse me? What are you playing?" He asked, the sentence taking all of his strength to from.

"Egyptian Rat Screw," the loud blonde replied.

One of the spectators, the plain-girl that puzzle boy seemed to like, slapped him in the back of the head. "Cut the sarcasm!"

"Ow! C'mon Teá, everyone knows what Duel Monsters is!" He pouted and nursed his scalp.

"Forgive the ingrate. They're playing a game called Duel Monsters. Ryou, is it? I'm Teá(Anzu), this Tristan(Honda)"―he waved―"Yugi, and the ingrate is Joey(Jounouchi)."

So puzzle-boy is Yugi, plain-girl, Teá, spike-hair, Tristan, and the loud blonde is Joey. Simple enough.

"Nice to meet you all." Ryou bowed. "So how does it work?"

They all participated in giving him a long winded explanation from Life Points to the Graveyard, Yugi throwing in a spat about this 'Heart of the Cards' business.

"Ya wanna go a round?" Joey asked. "You can use my deck, it sure hasn't brought me any luck. Just be warned, Yug's here will probably whip your tail."

"Are you sure you don't mind?" he said as Joey got up and he sat down.

"Nope. And as an added consolation I'll even coach you through." He smiled, hands on his hips in a confident gesture.

"Don't listen to him, Ryou, he'll make you lose," Teá said, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

"True that," Tristan added.

"Hey― What? C'mon Tristan, bros before she dogs, remember?"

Tristan looked away as though he didn't hear him.

Ryou laughed, and the mirth consumed him uncontrollably, hand flying to his mouth. This was the best he had felt in days, so light. So this was friendship.

Bakura gasped as he broke the surface of the water. How long, how long was it that time?

He glanced to the bathroom wall, finding the clock. Four minutes. Four minutes of death.

He licked his blue lips, hypothermia setting in. Blood pounded through his skull sharply as it was oxygenated through his lungs.

He was going mental, regressing to the way he had been before Ryou. He couldn't handle not being around his flower. He was starving himself, eating only what Ryou had prepared. He didn't bathe unless it was with Ryou and he spent the majority of his time washing the boy's hair. He didn't sleep, unless Ryou was curled against his body. And now, in his latest act of self-destruction, he had filled the bath tub with ice and water and held his breath underwater for as long as he could. He would breathe only for Ryou.

He knew nothing else. Ryou became the gravity that held him grounded to the planet, the oxygen that burned in his lungs, the water that quenched his body, the shelter that protected him, the nourishment to sustain him. Every little thing that made him alive. The milk-white petalled being, pure, innocent, every variation of the word, he loved him, he held him above him. This flower, his child, held all of his heart and love and paternal affection he had. The boy had fell into his life and give a dead soul élan and meaning, burned out eyes were given spark. His whole life revolved around caring for his flower, making sure he had everything he needed, not able to care about anything else. He could not find the words to encompass and explain this devotion. He couldn't find the answer to his question, why? Why had he found Ryou? Why did he embody _him_? Why Ryou's were eyes the same as his? Why did this innocent boy love him with everything he had? But he didn't need the answers, he only needed Ryou.

The boy was his existence.

And now he was pitying and harming himself? How could he provide for his flower if his body was messed up?

His stomach lurched, which tore him from his thoughts. He pushed himself out of the bath, sloshing water all over the floor and bathmat, and scrambled to the toilet, shoving open the lid and seat. He gripped the bowl weakly as his body shuddered from the core up. His chest hit the cold porcelain as his body heaved and his head lurched back, violently heaving. He starved today, so it was a dry-heave. His eyes watered and his stomach burned, his body rejecting something unknown to him. He felt another wave pass and seize control of his body from him; he coughed, gag reflex going haywire, then his body constricted, squeezing out a clear bile that filled the air with the caustic stench of acid.

Finally over, he leaned his forehead on the cool porcelain and wept, for the first time in 5,000 years.

When said, 5,000 is just a number, but he had _lived. _He had lived those1,825,000 days, those 43,800,000 hours, 2,628,000,000 minutes, 157,680,000,000 seconds. He had lived when others had died. He had watched countless empires rise and fall, see communication change, technology rise. He had seen the atrocities of humanity, lies, rape, deceit, murder, theft, the lowest, darkest… and he had been a part./ he had killed remorselessly, and he wanted to bring about the world's end. The sheer monolithic span of his life was incomprehensible, and a single boy had changed it all.

He had passed through more humans than he cared to count, but one boy, one infant had stopped him dead and seized him.

His reason to live.

He dried his tears with the back of his hand and used the bowl to push himself up. He washed up and pulled the plug to drain the ice water. He cleaned and dried his mess. He dressed and took a deep breath, feeling all the better for it. He felt good, for what had been the first time in days.

After all, Ryou would be home soon.

"Baka!" Ryou cheered, jumping into the car and hugging him.

Bakura smiled and pressed a welcoming kiss to his forehead, the boy writhing under him, keeping a thousand words at bay.

"Guess what?" He squealed.

"What?" Bakura laughed, happy to see the light in his eyes. He affectionately popped the boy on the head and made him fasten his seat belt.

"I'm serious, Baka, guess!" he huffed, sitting down properly.

"Uhhh," He drawled, shifting into drive to begin the long drive from the school driveway, "you joined the art club?"

"No, Baka, I made some friends today!" he beamed.

"That's good!" Bakura smiled, but there was something else there.

He couldn't help the pang of jealousy that sparked through his joy at the boy's growth.

"They're really into this card game called Duel Monsters, so I want to try to put together a deck."

Bakura laughed; there was a familiar name.

"Oi, Baka! What's so funny?" Ryou frowned as if he had been left out of the punch-line to some hilarious joke.

"Duel Monsters, I used to play that. It's just funny it's coming back around."

"You're so old, Baka," the boy giggled.

"Tell me about it…" he muttered. "Tell you what, when we get home I'll find my old cards for you."

"Really?" he said, using the 'Big Eyes'.

"Really." Bakura smiled. "I have a whole shoe box full."

Bakura actually had a lot of shoe boxes, filled with stuff marked too painful to deal with.

"Thank you, Baka! I'm so happy I wouldn't even care if it smells like feet!"

Ryou's sweet, child expression made Bakura laugh so hard his stomach hurt, full and mirthful, laughing with his whole body.

When he calmed down he looked to Ryou, who, for all the world, looked like an excited puppy. The boy practically wagged his bottom in his seat.

They neared the house, Bakura deliberately slowing to see the boy's reaction. He gave a low whimper, but was too polite and thankful to voice any complaint. Bakura smiled and pulled into the garage.

"To the attic, away," he laughed.

Ryou went wide-eyed. "We. Have. An. _Attic?_"

"Yes," Bakura stated as though the boy knew.

"Why was I never informed about this matter? This is awesome!"

Bakura shook his head and smiled, leading the bouncing mess into the house.

"So where is it?" he asked, running circles around Bakura, who had stopped at the door to hang his coat and keys.

Bakura nodded to the utility room.

"Really? I never saw it!" Ryou gasped.

Bakura went to the utility room and made the boy stand back as he pulled down the hidden ladder. He then climbed up, Ryou on hands and feet behind him. Bakura clicked on the light by string, stirring up a tornado of dust particles. Ryou coughed from behind him and Bakura tossed he a worried glance, then began to trudge through the wreckage. He picked up a box and brushed the thick layer of grime from it and popped the top off. Aha, first try.

He then closed it and turned, ushering the boy out of the attic. He tucked the box under his arm and folded the ladder, letting it disappear overhead.

He headed upstairs to his bedroom, Ryou following, where he sat down on the edge of the bed. Ryou sat on the floor in front of him like a begging puppy. Bakura grinned, finally handing him the box.

"Oh, thank you, Baka!" he beamed, tearing open the box.

"Oh, wait a sec." He leaned back and rolled over to the nightstand, which was in far better shape now than it had ever been, clutter-wise. He fished around for a moment in the drawer and pulled out a card.

"Here, take this. It's my favorite. It's called 'A Change of Heart'."

Ryou's lips parted in a soft gasp. "Thank you, Baka."


	8. Bruised Flowers

•Bruised Flowers•

He watched the boy put his deck together.

Ryou sat hunched over with knitted brows as he put all his focus into reading the tiny descriptions printed on each sleek card.

However, most cards he chose were based on the eye-appeal, Bakura noticed. He gave a soft laugh and shuffled his feet on the bed.

Ryou turned around and gave a pouting scowl, put out at Bakura's interruptions. Bakura threw both hands up in a gesture of 'okay, okay' to appease the boy.

Ryou went back to the task at hand, picking up a card, then another, and then compared the two.

"Umm… Baka…?" he murmured shyly, the break in silence his soft voice caused making Bakura jump.

"Yes?" Bakura waited.

"Umm… how many…?" He fidgeted.

Bakura chuckled, his sweet flower so adorable. "A minimum of twenty brown ones, ten purple ones, and ten green ones, no more than sixty total, and no more than three of the same card."

Ryou gave a single, firm nod and turned back to his cards. Bakura smiled and moved onto his stomach to watch his flower. Before they knew it, thirty minutes had elapsed and the boy was finished. He heaved a sigh and flopped backwards onto the carpet and kicked his legs out from their crossed forms into the air. He held his deck in his hand.

"May I see it?" Bakura asked, peering down at the boy's bright chocolate eyes.

Ryou proffered the deck, blindly stretching his hand up. Bakura grasped them and rolled up into a sitting position and began to sift through. He laughed; Ryou had picked the exact opposite of what he himself would have chosen, focusing more on protecting his monsters rather than decimating his opponent. He set the deck on the edge of the nightstand. Ryou's ears perked up at the snort Bakura made and he scrambled up to lean on the edge of the bed.

"What! Did I do something wrong?" The genuine shock in his voice sent a pang through Bakura's chest; his sweet flower preserved, unchanged sweetness and purity.

"No, dork, it's just… you're the flip side of the coin from me."

He sighed; it was a little bitter. In this moment he wished, he implored, that he be better; be better for Ryou. He gave the child everything he could, made sure he got everything he needed, but the was always the lingering sins, his past that constantly loomed overhead. If only he could recast the dice and redo all his mess-ups. If only he could live a normal human life span and be a normal parent for Ryou.

If only he was free of the sickness of immortality.

Ryou went wide eyed. "Oh, Baka! Don't say that! I wanna be just like you!"

He proceeded to go off into the chorus of the perceivably racists Louis Armstrong inspired song from the Jungle Book, "I Wanna Be Like You."

"Dork," he snorted, irked at Ryou's admiration. "How do you suppose?"

Ryou turned on his 'Big Eyes' and leapt up onto the bed, pouncing on Bakura.

"Well, you're tall, and _really_ smart, and you take good care of me and you, you always play with me, you're supportive, you're not _too_ mean with your punishments, you're nice, trust-worthy, empathetic, you don't keep things from me, ooh you're not afraid of spiders, you're patient, you don't snore, you're responsible, you make me brush my teeth, and you don't yell like the kids at school."

Ryou heaved in a massive breath, his mile-a-minute-monologue coming to a close.

"You have _got_ to stop doing that," Bakura said as he fanned the boy. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he panted, catching his breath at last.

"Good," he stated then rolled Ryou over onto his back and began to tickle him.

"Baka!" the youth squealed in delight, writhing under Bakura's evil fingers.

The boy laughed until the bush of breath loss nipped his cheeks and Bakura ceased his tortures. He brushed Ryou's bangs back and kissed his snowy hairline.

"Dork," he said, giving another quick kiss. He rolled off of Ryou and retrieved his deck, handing it to him. "You made a good deck. Wanna have a few mock duels for practice?"

"Please!" he beamed, snuggling against Bakura's stomach. "I'll cook dinner while you put together a deck."

Bakura pulled a piece of wiredrawn hair from Ryou's eye and sat up. "Sounds great, let's head downstairs."

He grabbed the show box and began the descent into the kitchen, Ryou bounding behind.

He sat at the table as Ryou began to dance around the kitchen as he flitted from cabinet to cabinet to proceed the necessary pots and pans for dinner.

Bakura poured over his work, elbows propped and chest low to the table as he read card after card that was fished from the propinquity of the shoe box. It had, indeed, been a long time.

A spicy, savory aroma began to waft through the room as the hisses and bubbles that accompanied cooking were made known in a sonata of sound that made Bakura's stomach rumble.

"Ra, that smells good," Bakura sighed after he inhaled, "what'cha making?"

Ryou spun around, ladle in hand, and smiled. "Curry!"

Bakura laughed and they both went back to their tasks at hand. Time elapsed in the manner that it does – quickly – and anon both males were dueling and taking bites of curry in between turns.

Ryou bade Bakura not to take it easy on him, and so Bakura gave it everything he had as Ryou learned the best strategies for his deck. They went at it well after supper was done until Ryou's eyes began to droop, and Bakura declared it bed time.

"I use spell card Change of Heart to take control of your Magician of Black Chaos. Magician of Black Chaos, attack his life points directly!"

"Woah…" Joey said in awe, "he beat Yug's! With his own monster too."

Ryou blushed, having just won the most intense duel he had ever played.

Yugi smiled. "Great job, Ryou. That was an amazing duel."

Ryou returned his smile and they shook hands. After that, the group all clapped him on the back in congratulations.

The bell then tolled for lunch, rousing them all from their seats. "You guys go ahead, I'll catch up. I want to re-organize my deck."

They nodded and left Ryou to himself.

Ryou went about putting his deck away happily, so proud in having won his duel. He gripped the smooth cards in his hands, getting them ready to be put back into their case.

"I bet that was hard work," a voice sounded, stirring Ryou. His cards were then in a flutter around him, slapped from his hands by the tall, muscular teen that now presented himself in front of Ryou. Ryou wasn't very tall, so having a few inches on him wasn't an impressive feat, but this boy _towered_ over him.

Ryou squeaked in shock at the stinging of his hands.

"Ushio-sempai," Ryou stuttered.

The larger male moved in on Ryou, whose stomach fell in fear, skin prickling, throat tightening, the side effects of adrenaline. He felt his thighs hit the desks behind him roughly.

"You disgust me; you come here all polite and perfect, making us all look stupid, and you hug all over your homo of a father everyday in the parking lot, rubbing in our faces the fact that you have parents. Then you and your nerd friends sit and play that devil worshiper's game, you're sickening."

The larger teen grabbed Ryou's shoulders and shoved him back so hard that he fell through the two desks – still facing each other from the duel – and his back collided with the bookshelf. He cried out, the sensation of pain exploding through his body and making his vision flicker.

"Pathetic bug!" Ushio roared, dropping on of his hands from Ryou's shoulders to rear it back into a fist.

Ryou shuddered in fear and pain, mind dead to thought. He saw the fist and tensed, then his lips parted and a feeble noise and blood fell from them as his stomach took the majority of the impact, the rest of the momentum shoving him into the bookshelf once more.

Ryou couldn't comprehend this. Why? What had he done? His body hurt so bad, hurt like never before. He had had growing aches and soreness of course, but this was something entirely different. He coughed, his body emitting another weak groan, and more blood dribbled out.

'_What's this?' _he thought, consciousness wobbling in and out. _'It's such a pretty red. Oh yeah… that's right, it's blood… I've never really seen my own blood.'_

"Nerd," Ushio scoffed and turned to leave.

Ryou slid down slowly into the pile of his duel monsters cards and shattered innocence, and sobbed.

"Hello, Ryou." Bakura smiled as Ryou got in the car. He was in a better mood today than he had been for weeks.

Ryou eased back gingerly, checking his voice so he could answer.

"Hi, Baka." It was weak.

"Oi, is something wrong, Ryou?" Bakura tossed him a sidelong glance.

Ryou said the first thing that came to his mind, the lie that slipped like oil from his teeth, the lie that killed him to tell Bakura, because the truth hurt worse. He told the first lie he had ever told.

"I'm just tired, that's all. We didn't get much sleep, Baka."

"Hmm, true. I'll have to keep in mind school nights when you talk me into something."

Ryou gave a smile. It hurt to lean back into the leather seats, they now felt hard against his injuries when he had always thought them so soft.

Bakura drove them home in silence, while Ryou tried to sleep. Slumber evaded him, however, and soon they were pulling into the drive way.

"Baka," Ryou managed, "I'm too tired to cook. Are you okay with left over curry?"

Bakura's eyes softened as he looked deep into Ryou's chocolaty orbs and he reached out to rub his fingers across the youth's soft cheeks.

"Of course, Ryou. I'll heat it up and we can go to bed early."

Ryou smiled. "Thank you, Baka.:

And then it hit, that sensation that made everything better, all brought on by three little words: "I love you, Ryou."

Ryou felt himself swoon and his eyes close, his chest swelling. "I love you so much, Baka."

Bakura leaned over and pressed a kiss to Ryou's pale hairline. "C'mon, let's go eat."

They dinned in silence, true fatigue now setting in for Ryou. Bakura cleared the dishes, rinsing and stacking them to be washed later, and they headed upstairs. Bakura placed a hand on Ryou's shoulder gently. "How about a shower first?"

Ryou then told him the lie that broke his heart most, all to protect Bakura.

"Do you mind if I shower alone?"

Bakura stopped dead in his tracks, the pure feeling of rejection hurting so badly he had to gasp.

"But Ryou, we've always showered together…" Bakura trembled slightly, shocked in disbelief, he _had _to have heard wrong.

"But aren't I getting a little old for that? I'm fifteen and in high school."

'_I'm lying! I'm lying Baka!' _he wanted to scream, _'I'm lying through my teeth! Please, please Bakura!'_

The look in Bakura's eyes tore Ryou to pieces, tiny, shattered pieces. The pain in his chest was physical, and he had to turn away and hide his eyes, lest he shed the tears that were forming on the surfaces of his bright irises.

"Very well…" Bakura staggered back until his knees hit the bed and he fell to his backside, his voice nothing more than a pained whisper. "I love you, Ryou."

That was the breaking point of the dam of Ryou's emotions, and his tears quietly streamed down his face. His body hitched, but he disguised it with a nod. It was all he could manage.

Bakura felt his breath scrape in and out like he had just downed a glass-and-tequila cocktail. He had dropped his hour glass, the sands that never moved now spilt across this immensity of pain as he tried so desperately to keep the sand from slipping between his fingers, only to be cut by the glass. But, no matter how hard he tried, it was fruitless; after all, one can't grow a flower in sand.

Ryou stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the water's heavy encumbrance sounding like the flutter of a thousand paper cranes. If he could get his wish, if only, he would wish this day away, wish the lies away, wish Bakura's heart unbroken.

He shut the door, the old house unbeknownst to him protesting by reopening partially. Bakura could see Ryou strip down, beginning with his jacket.

Ryou tossed his montrichous duster of hair from its coercion that was better known as his shirt collar. The achromatic décolleté of his school uniform dipped low to divulge a pale lick of his chest. He turned to face the shower, shirt held on by bent elbows extending to curled fingers, revealing narrow shoulders. The garment slipped languorously from his delicate frame and down his defined back as he let go of the paper-thin shirt, white gossamer parting from cream and the cotton fingers hanging onto soft skin.

That's when Bakura saw the bruises, the floral pattern of blood trapped beneath skin. They blossomed on his midriff and back, large patches of purple petals pinpricked with red; the disease of violence. Injured tissue, discoloration, the marring of his white flower, and the rupture of vessels, the spreading of pure blood that should never surface, it all come into bud.

The boy stepped into the shower, disappearing from his view.

That's when the shaking began.

Uncontrollable shaking, every muscle in his body tensed and flexed, his hands curled into false claws, his vision went white, his blood vessels swelled and popped from strain. A slip of clarity passed through him in a hush hush silver flutter; Ryou. He couldn't let the boy see this anger, not after what happened last time.

He used what little self-control he had left to rise from the bed and across the room. The shakes came back when he made it to the stairs and he leaned heavily on the wood-paneled wall, the grooves of each panel tearing into his shirt sleeve, eventually getting to skin.

Hook, kiss, bite, pull, tear, lick, seep, Ra it felt good, any type of release from the pressure building inside him was hailed, and the blood was so pretty against his cream skin. Hopefully it would leave scars, tiny vines to snake across the flesh wall.

The kitchen was passed insentiently as he sank deeper and deeper to the beasts and demons that pulled at him, who begged him to return to the way he used to be.

The garage was so close he could smell the sweet gasolinic scent that came standard and had his heart leaping for joy. The door opened, closed, clicked, and he let go.

The howl he held at bay for so long ruptured from his lungs, straining and popping vocal cords. It seized his whole body and he balled his hands into fists, over grown nails bringing blood. The Sennen Ring began to glow, his body expelling everything it could, all his power. It began to dance violently about, whirlwinds trying to pull it from his chest but only succeeding in sending his hair askew.

He finally moved, grabbing some useless, insignificant object and hurtling it into space; quite frankly he couldn't give a damn where it landed or what it broke.

How DARE anyone ever hurt his flower? NEVER had a bruise disgraced his body, NEVER had the child been exposed to any sort of intentional pain. The moment he found out who had done it… his brain quit working in sentences and was reduced to only blinding flashes and surges of torture: blood, lots of blood, breaking, snapping forearms with bare hands, knives, chains, tearing, burning, surely he still had that lighter, defenestration… oh the things he could do to a body to disfigure and mangle it beyond recognition…

The power from the ring kept flowing full force and his screams became haggard. He tasted blood, no doubt from his throat, blood vessels popping more and more. His nose began to bleed as he shook. His vision flashed into hollow black, likeable to that of standing up too fast.

The ring quit blustering and he passed out.

Ryou slipped into his pajamas, toweling his hair with a fluffy black towel. The pain in his body had eased with the warm shower.

"Okay, Baka, I'm out," he called, but his Baka was nowhere to be found.

Ryou sat down on the bed, tucking one foot behind his knee. He was a little scared and called out for Bakura again.

No answer.

Finally, the boy couldn't take the suspense anymore and pushed himself up off the bed, using pupultion gained to fly down the stairs.

"Baka?" he called as the stairs opened up into the kitchen.

Ryou then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Bakura leaning over the sink, but was instantaneously thrown back into anxiety when he saw how Bakura's hand dipped back and forth from his nose then into the running water, clearing away blood.

"Baka!" Ryou screamed, rushing to him instantly taking over, grabbing the nearest dish towel and wetting it.

He placed it to Bakura's nose and lips, looking into his bewildered expression. Bakura then tried to lean back, but Ryou fussed and made him lean forward.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" Ryou asked, distress evident in his voice.

"Ryou?" Bakura said as best as he could, surprise evident in his hoarse voice.

"Why is your nose bleeding?" Ryou seemed wrapped up in Bakura, in between washing his nose and looking deep in his eyes; close, but still holding off that embrace he wanted so badly to give.

Bakura's forced more from his voice so that he could reassure Ryou. "It's fine, dork, it's just a random nose bleed."

Except it wasn't.

"Just a nose bleed! Baka! Nose bleeds can mean you have a deviated septum, or a bleeding disorder, hereditary hemorrhagic telangiectasia, leukemia, a thrombotic disorder, wait, leukemia is cancer! Baka, your nose bleeding could have cancer! Baka! You need to go to a doctor! You—" Ryou tried to continue but his lungs gave out and he was reduced to a trembling, panting mess.

"Ryou, I don't have cancer, – or any of those other things you listed for that matter. Have you been watching those medical shows on TV? You know I don't like you watching that stuff, it freaks you out too much. It's _just_ a nose bleed, I'm fine."

Except he wasn't.

His whole body ached, and was on the verge of shutting down. His heart hurt and beat sporadically, and were he not immortal, he would have sworn this was what a heart-attack was like.

Ryou, whose eyes had been brimming with tears, twitched a few times before he fully began crying and tackle-hugged Bakura.

"I'm so sorry, Baka! I'm sorry I didn't take a shower with you and I'm sorry you're bleeding! And I'm sorry I talk so much without breathing and that I'm a hypocrite—"

"Hypochondriac."

"Hypochondriac, I just worry about you and I love you so much, Baka! I don't know what I'd do with out you!"

The boy leaned heavily into Bakura, his sporadic emotional rampage making him weak. Bakura then used what remaining strength he had left to hold his tiny flower up.

"It's okay, sweet, it's okay. I love you, Ryou. You are my reason for living."

At this, both of their strengths gave out and they fell into a crumpled heap on the floor. Ryou sobbed with fresh tears, clutching tightly onto Bakura's arms.

"You have blood on your shirt," he murmured, pulling it off. Bakura lifted his arms as the fabric grazed over his skin.

Ryou then put his cheek on Bakura's chest, his warm skin soothing. He could hear the wet lub-dub of Bakura's heart beat, the even noise making his eye lids droop. Here, in Bakura's arms, he felt safe. He felt blanketed in Bakura's protection, felt like all his troubles had been washed away.

Having Ryou in his arms calmed Bakura, and his heart's palpitations regulated into a strong, thrumming beat. It was as though he had turned back time and kept the glass from breaking, held all of the sand in the confines of his protection. And barely, but surely, he could see the tiny sproutings of a flower bud.


	9. THe Disease Called Violence

•The Disease Called Violence•

Bakura slammed his hands down on the head mistress' desk, rising violently from his chair. The Sennen ring clattered on the desk due to his low stance.

"What the hell do you mean 'can't do anything,'!"

"As I said, you're lacking in evidence," the head mistress said, calm and contempt in her demeanor.

Bakura's eyes flashed; he was so angry you could see the veins in his neck and temple. "I saw the bruises!"

She leaned back, crossing her legs and fingers.

"Mr. Bakura – is that your first name or last?"

"Both." Short, bitter, and to the point.

"Mr. Bakura, has Ryou actually told you that he's being bullied at school?"

Bakura opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut again.

"Well, no…"

"Then how can you be so sure it was bullying? Kids these days rough house all the time with each other. If I were you, I wouldn't worry about it."

Bakura felt the tide of anger rise up again, the prickle of his skin, the heat and choler, and then, an eerie calm.

"Very well, Ms. Megumimasu, I was out of line and over protective of my child. Forgive me. I'll take my leave now."

He turned – totally oblivious to anything the head mistress might have said – and walked into the hall, as dark aura about him.

The seductive pull of his inner demons strung him up like a marionette, dark strings controlling him until he was something less than human. The hungry puppeteer craved him and dragged him into a trench of pure suffocating darkness, the larval, cocoon rather, body that if left unchecked would metamorphose into something gnarled by his pain and sin, that would make even the pharaoh cringe.

Those bruises were _NOT_ from horseplay. They were from roughly being forced into something; he would know, he had about fifty-five lifetimes worth of experience of how to put the prettiest of markings on a body. But these markings were ugly and brutal. When he found out who…

Bakura had to stop walking and lean against the lockers crammed into the wall as his mind enticed him with vivid images that made his knees go weak and his body shudder in a warped joie de vivre.

"Yeah, I really beat the snot out of that pasty new kid. Serves him right."

Bakura's ears perked up and he peered around the corner.

Three teens were ganged up in the hall clearly cutting class. One of them, who towered above the other two, leaned against the window, running his mouth.

"He squealed like the pathetic bug he is. I bet that pampered runt had never felt pain before. Haha, well, it was up to me to show of what the rest of us felt!"

Bakura gripped the Millennium Ring that dangled permanently at his neck. It glimmered lightly.

"So, I hear you're accustomed to pain," Bakura rasped as he rounded the corner, eyes obscured from view.

The two smaller teens – both greasy looking – backed up, clearly scared and going on the defensive. The massive one used his back to push himself upright, his arms remaining crossed.

"Run." Bakura snarled in command, clearly threatening. The two greasy teens got the inferred 'or else' and ran off, leaving the hulking one.

"Eh?" Ushio's lip twitched in a manner of disgust. "You're that runt's father. What the hell do you want?"

"You say that you're used to pain, so much so that you feel it's selfish that you keep it all to yourself. I like pain, and I'm sure what you've had is _nothing_ compared to what I can give."

Bakura walked slowly to the teen, closing in on him. Bakura clenched his fist and drove in a harsh thrust against the window, leaving an explosion of tiny shards falling down in a downburst of spider-webbed filigree. He didn't move until the blood began to drip from his knuckles.

Then he tossed his head back in a full-bodied laughter, mouth extended wide giving a glimpse of prominent canines. His eyes took on insanity's chill, and his aura pushed out and consumed, throttling. He pushed his hand through the glass, tearing flesh to resemble something likened to a blender.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing, you sick bastard!"

Bakura's maniacal laughter picked up as he wrenched his arm through the hole he had made. Snapping a shard of limpid glass from the window, he grasped it as tight as he could, then proceeded to drive it in and out of his bicep.

"Pain is fun! Wouldn't you agree!" Bakura crackled, the erratic thrusts of the glass dagger spraying blood ubiquitously.

"Stop! Stop it you bastard!" Ushio screamed at the top of his lungs, crouching down into a spheroid modus and covering his ears in a pathetic endeavor to drown out the laughter.

"Don't you want to join in my fun?" Bakura paused.

Ushio began to tremble violently as Bakura slowly stumbled to him, dripping blood in heavy blots on the cheap school building linoleum.

Blood seeped from his fingertips and spilled sown his wrist when he brought the digits up to stroke the teen's face, eye to cheek. The hands, longing, the eyes, hungry and blank, moved down, giving the ticking throat a squeeze. The drubbing pulse fluxed. Ushio's eyes bulged from unimposing sockets fearfully, his mouth opening to emit a feeble cry.

Bakura gripped Ushio's shirt collar, hefting the taller male up with ease as though he existed in an infantile husk. The teen tried to stutter something, but was too stunned to squeak some nature of coherent shriek.

"Fly away, little birdie," Bakura chortled, the amusement wracking his unabridged skinny frame.

He twisted Ushio around, pushed, let go, and through the glass window his birdie flew.

###

Bakura smiled as the door opened. "Heya, kiddo, how was your day?"

Ryou slinked into the car, his face long and drawn in the vein of when he was sick to his stomach.

Bakura's expression turned worried. "Ryou? What's the matter?"

His delicate frame trembled softly. "One of my classmates jumped from the second story window today. He's in the hospital, and they say it's bad; he won't stop laughing."

Bakura made a nurturing noise and brushed a wiry strand of Ryou's hair back with the rest and patted him. Ryou took this as a subpoena to wrap his arms around Bakura's slender midriff, crying against his chest and taking solace in his safeguarding arms.

"I just don't understand it –" he sniffed "– why would someone want to hurt themself? It's horrible and downright cruel!" The endings were drawn out into a wail as sobs wracked his delicate flower's shoulders.

As he sobbed for a man who had harmed him.

Bakura felt the anger tide rise, gravitated toward the pale moon in his arms. Ryou should be laughing! He should rejoice; this vile, disgusting pig that hurt him was vanquished! Bakura wanted Ryou to laugh with him as he did inside, oh inside! His inner self churned with mirth, swirling yellow into anger's red depths. He laughed, his abs quivering, but no sounds passed his lips save for those he used to soothe his flower. He gripped Ryou tighter, digging his fingertips into the boy's biceps.

'_Laugh! Laugh with me! Feel this mirth that comes from harm!' _he implored, hoping somehow the boy could hear his thoughts.

'_Don't pressure him! He'll wilt!' _A shrill voice crackled inside Bakura. '_Unless you wish to turn him to an iron thorn such as yourself!' _

'_I have rescued him and vanquished his troubles!' _Bakura answered, snapping at the internal voice. _'He should be happy! I want to make him happy!'_

'_But his heart bleeds! He weeps for all!' _The voice lost its shrill edge, becoming deeper, distinctly Egyptian.

It became _His _voice.

Bakura flinched heavily, dissipating the madness that had broken the chains upon his heart of hearts and let the Thief King slip out.

His hands squeezed tighter on the boy's arms, a squeak pressed from his body.

Bakura felt appalling, vile, abhorrent, all forms of self-loathing. He was angry at Ryou for caring about those who were hurt, hurt by him. No, he had gotten angry at Ryou for being Ryou. How? This could not be! He adored this boy whom he had nurtured into gentle adolescence, there was no explanation – yes, yes there was. _Him_, that blasted False King who was the basis of all evil in his body! _Him_ who he was born of, once more damn Ra! Damn this petty sun god who twisted the blade deeper into the mortal body, extricating the soul! _He_ was having his way with him, playing with his emotions and lucidity, all to get to the flower, the single speck of white the grew amongst the blackened char of _His_ world, burned by _His_ sins. Ha! _Burned_ by the Pharaoh. _He _wanted to taint his Ryou, but he wouldn't let that happen.

He would be the buffer between good and evil.

"B-baka," Ryou panted, "y-you're hurting–"

Bakura's focus snapped like a band against flesh at the boy's strained voice. He loosened instantaneously his hold on the boy, who took in cool gulping breaths of air, face bloodshot from privation of oxygen.

"Ryou! Are you okay?" There was no time to hide the anxiety that broke his voice.

The boy nodded, easing himself back with his legs tucked under his behind. "You just squeezed me a bit too tight."

Ryou sat back in his seat and buckled, trying to remain oblivious to Bakura's sweltering gaze that bore into him.

Bakura's eyes stung as he tried to bite back tears. His breaths scraped unevenly though his chest as he looked upon his tiny flower.

"I'm so sorry, Ryou, for harming you, and for you friend."

"Thank you, Baka." Ryou's beam was sincere.

"I love you; you are my reason for living." He cast his heavy cocoa eyes, shined smooth like polish topaz by his adoration, to Ryou.

Ryou gasped as he felt the familiar exhilaration take hold of him, the feeling that only his Baka could strike in him, that beautiful pride.

Time passed in silence as each let their chests deflate to normal size.

Bakura could think and breathe now, and could rationalize what was best for his flower without the internal strife to drag him down to his demons.

"You may go and visit him, if you like."

Ryou's chocolate brown eyes widened and he turned to look as his carbon-copy. "Reall? You don't like hospitals though…"

Like was an understatement. He _loathed_ the eerily sterile places, filled with sick, dying humans lying in their own waste and decay, their stench covered by vociferous chemicals, and wanted Ryou nowhere near them. But Ryou needed this.

"Yes, I'm sure."


	10. Hospitals

•Hospitals•

The drive to the hospital was a long one, particularly because it was in the complete opposite direction Bakura normally drove to take them home. Extending the tedium, tedium on Bakura's part who sat in silence and scowled, and irksomeness for Ryou who sat in silence and softly worried, Bakura stopped at a local flower shop and gave the boy a crumpled wad of cash to spend on daffodils or whatever flower meant 'get well soon.' He didn't care; he needed only one flower, none of the kind that wither away.

The boy came back hoisting a vase about as long as his torso filled with white daisies, framing his face in a florid wreath. Bakura shifted in his seat while keeping his arms crossed and scowled. Ryou's soft beauty outshone the flowers; his pale skin and milk-colored hair put the yellowed daisies to shame in his opinion.

Lilies. White lilies that grew along the banks of the Nile, those are the flowers that should frame his face, kiss his pale skin, those are the flowers that would enhance his splendid beauty. Yes, white lilies from the banks of the Nile.

"Oi, Baka, I picked out some daisies for Ushio-sempai―" The name made Bakura grit his teeth. "―They didn't have a very large variety, what with winter on its way and all."

"Ah, they're very nice. Maybe you should start a flower garden at home?" Bakura said distantly as he helped the boy buckle and juggle the flowers.

"That would be so much―" He sneezed as an errant petal brushed his nose and was blessed― "Thank you. Fun! Would you help? The fruits of our labor would yield something so pretty."

"Of course," he chuckled.

They fell back into silence once the car was moving on the highway again, only the sound of water sloshing in its vase to keep the wet thrum of the road company.

A parking spot was easily secured in the nigh vacant lot, not many people wanting to visit the ailed on a dreary work night.

Bakura followed remissly behind Ryou, who trudged along, carting his oversized vase, which completely blocked his vision. How he didn't trip escaped Bakura.

The automatic doors slid open, and a cold whoosh of air hit Bakura like a blow, making him shiver vehemently. It was cold enough from the rain outside; there was no need for air conditioning in.

"I'll wait for you out here, just go to the front desk and ask to see your sempai. Return when done."

Bakura had never let Ryou go off so far on his own, and it irked him, but to go with him would give him away…

###

Ryou tossed one last glance to Bakura, apprehensive now that his guardian wouldn't be at his side.

He shuffled the flowers in his arms slightly to per out from behind the mass of petals. His vision cleared just before he ran into the counter and a slip of a startled yelp absconded him.

The woman seated behind the reception counter smiled, crinkling up into her eyes framed by two deep grooves that were parenthesis-like in form.

"How may I help you, Sweetie?"

Ryou shuffled the vase a bit more, blushing lightly in his shyness. "Um, I would like to visit my sempai, please. He was admitted earlier today."

She typed something on her up on the computer judging by the click of a keyboard that sounded; Ryou couldn't actually see. "Oh yes, the Ushio-boy, yes?"

"Yes ma'am."

"He's in the Psych Ward, fifth floor, department 2A. The nurse on duty there should be able to tell you the room number."

"Thank you very much,' he said softly, turning to head en route for the elevator.

He stopped when he heard her say: "I think that it is very sweet of you to come and visit your classmate, and to bring him fresh flowers as well. Seeing such a sweet, beautiful boy such as yourself would do him some good."

Ryou smiled, his eyes closing serenely, and thanked her.

The clean tile of the floors sparkled and sent back to Ryou a warped, distorted reflection of himself, his flowered frame appearing as spectral orbs of will-o-wisp. It looked pretty, he thought as he pressed the button to send for the elevator, and the distortion made him look more like his Baka; older.

He wished his Baka was here now, with him as he lost his stomach because of the elevator, with him to comfort him as he bit at the inside corners of his lips. He was scared, scared of and for Ushio-sempai. This was the bully who harmed him, but he was also hurt himself and alone in the hospital. Nothing comes from returning harsh words and actions with more in Ryou's opinion, and he hoped to bridge the fissure between him and Ushio.

"Excuse me," Ryou murmured at the next checkpoint, "could you direct me to Tetsu Ushio's room?"

The receptionist for the Psych Ward peered over the tops of her wire-framed glasses at him, her lips pursed in disdain.

"Visiting hours are almost over."

Her tone was off-putting, making Ryou throw up his defensive walls, drawing deeper within his shy shell.

"Oh, I'm sorry… I promise I won't be long."

She rolled her eyes and picked up a magazine. "Very well. Head down the hall, his name will be on the door."

"Th-thank you," he said, though she didn't deserve it.

Ryou clenched his vase close to his chest, an uneasy feeling setting in. The hospital was empty and dim, waiting room lights off due to the dwindling hours left for visitation. A blood-curdling scream of agony came from one of the sealed rooms, making Ryou jump and slosh water on his arms. He panted, eyes wide, as the upwelling of fear circulated through his body with each heavy tremble of his heart. He felt bad for the poor soul who had screamed, even with the shock it had given him.

Thankfully, he swiftly found Ushio's room.

Ryou knocked, calling out to Ushio. He waited, the tried the handle. It was unlocked, so he entered.

"Ushio-sempai? It's Ryou. I brought you some flowers."

The lights were out, the only illumination in the room were electronic monitors and the moon, which had risen early tonight.

"Pain is fun, wouldn't you agree? Pain is fun, so much fun. Fly away little birdie, fly away with me."

Ryou walked further into the room, towards the voice.

"Ushio-sempai?"

"Join in my fun? Pain is fun, so much fun."

Ryou found Ushio lying in a hospital bed, stuck in a fully body cast. He looked helpless, and delirious. His face was split open from his upper lip to betwixt his eyes.

Ryou pressed further, slowly. "Ushio?"

The large male's eyes flicked over riotously to the direction of Ryou's voice, wide with lunacy. When his gaze landed on Bakura's carbon copy, he began to scream.

"Devil! Get away from me, you devil! Host! Host cell! The devil resides in you! You will burn, you devil, get away!"

He flailed wildly, his cast and the system of slings and pulleys holding his shattered limbs in position keeping him from moving. He shrieked, loud, and Ryou realized it was Ushio whom he had heard in the hall way. The vase fell from his hands, slowly it seemed, and then the glass prison was derelict, filling the air with a harsh euphony of breaking and splashing to harmonize with Ushio's screams.

Ryou turned and ran, slipping in the water and landing hard on his knee. Ushio was seizing now, eyes rolled in the back of his head and froth specking the corners of his lips. Ryou got back up, too scared to focus on the hot, throbbing pain that made him nauseous, and ran from the room. He didn't – couldn't – stop running until he hit the elevator, where he curled up in the corner and the clot of his emotions passed.

He coughed as he choked when he inhaled, starting his sobs. He wept hot, fearful tears into he sleeves, his skin prickling from the distress that sat like solid iron in his gut. What was that? What had transpired in there? It had happened so fast; Ushio was screaming at him, calling him a devil. A searing throb of pain ran through his leg, macerating his thoughts. He looked down and extended his knee, feeling it tentatively. It was swollen, and inflamed, but nothing more than that.

He could hide it from Bakura.

Nothing killed him more than having to lie to Bakura, and it felt as though their trust had a fissure, and he was the one who drove the wedge in deeper and deeper. He was the one who made it broader. But he couldn't take seeing Bakura's beautiful face shatter with pain and anger, to see his eye grow wide and red, his lashes grow thick with tears. It hurt his heart that Bakura cared so much, and filled him with so much love he could cry, so he would do all that he could to keep from hurting his Baka.

And if that hurt him in the process, so be it.

Ryou quickly dried his tears now having calmed down since he tough of Bakura. They would return home, cook supper together, bathe, then go to sleep, and he would contently lay in the warmth and protection of Bakura's arms. The thought made him smile, and once the elevator chimed and opened, he sprinted across the first floor to where his Baka sat.

As soon as Bakura uncrossed his legs and opened up to him Ryou was in his lap, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Bakura smiled, "Hey, Dork. Did you miss me?"

Ryou beamed and put his hands on Bakura's shoulders. "Yes, very much so! It was lonely."

He chuckle and tapped Ryou's thigh, prompting him to stand. "How did it go?" He asked as he stood up.

Ryou took Bakura's hand as the man walked past him, trailing behind. "Okay, I guess. Ushio-sempai was sleeping, so I set my flowers down and tidied up."

Bakura 'Ahhed' and pulled Ryou a little faster; he was more than eager to get out of the cold hospital. "Why are your sleeves wet?"

Tripping, Ryou responded: "I tripped and spilled a bit of the water from the flowers on me."

Bakura arched a brow and tossed a wayward glance at Ryou's shoes, which happened to be his winter boots, which were a tad big for growing room. "Remind me to sand down the heel on those."

Ryou nodded with a sweet smile, trodding happily after Bakura.

Bakura welcomed the scent of rain that hit his face with the breeze as they went out side. He thanked some unknown entity that Ryou and Ushio hadn't come into direct contact; he couldn't fathom how it would have ended.

The dreary grayness of the cloud laden sky and moist asphalt blended about into one hue as the sun finally winded down the rest of the day away and Bakura and his flower Ryou went home.


	11. In His Garden

•In His Garden•

Two days had passed since the hospital visitations and it was now the weekend.

Though the sun had risen and burned in the sky for hours now, Bakura's chest still rose and fell in the even rhythm of deep sleep. Ryou was tangled up in his arms, which came around his back and shoulder blades to hold him in close, and Ryou had his own arms wrapped around Bakura's neck. Their respirations were in time, so it was a back and forth act of their chests competing for space and receding to leave a hollow between them.

Ryou shifted gently in his sleep, but the jostle in the bed it made woke Bakura. He inhaled deeply through his nose, leading into a yawn as he tried to wake his body. Ryou shifted a bit more, then once Bakura's eyes focused he saw the boy blinking up at him.

Ryou tried to inhale, but his left nostril was stuffed up from sleeping on his side. Instead he sneezed.

"Bless you, dork," Bakura murmured, voice hoarse from sleep.

Ryou, whose voice took much longer to return from sleep, smiled and pressed an eskimo-kiss to Bakura's shoulder. Parts of his hair were stuck to Bakura's arm, whose hair was _always_ perfect. Ryou couldn't fathom it; his hair was everywhere, sticking up in places and matted to the back of his neck with sweat.

"What do you say we go to the store and get some flowers for your garden?" Bakura asked with heavy lids, fighting off going back to sleep.

"Oh, Baka! You remembered!" Ryou squeaked. "I would love to! But… it's almost winter time though."

"We can start the off inside, and pick up seeds for next summer's yield."

Bakura rolled off his side onto his back and Ryou propped himself up on an elbow to look down at him.

"I'm so happy you remembered, Baka," Ryou beamed.

"Of course, dork. Lets go eat some breakfast."

Ryou leaned in the bedroom doorway with his hands wrapped around his milk glass, still a little full from breakfast.

"What kind do you think we should get?" he asked as he watched the muscles in Bakura's back flex and roll as he put on his shirt.

To Ryou, he looked like a rangy Siamese tomcat, strong and lithe, with a mane the color of vibrissae. To imagine Bakura as a kitty made the boy giggle.

"Hm," he said thoughtfully as he worked the buttons of his shirt into their respective holes, "Cactus."

Ryou rolled his chestnut eyes and crossed the small expanse of cream carpet between the door and the bed and plopped himself down.

"Baaakaaa," he drawled, "be serious; don't pick something _just_ because you won't to have to water it, be eclectic."

"You're the flower expert," Bakura reasoned, snagging Ryou's milk glass that was obvious that he wasn't going to finish.

"But there are so many types I need help! Tear drop petals or ruffles and lace? Iridescent, radiant, creamy, flaming, blazing, should the splash like falling confetti? Elegant profusion, the heady perfumes of spring! From pistil to pollen to stamen, they are the flora of Heaven's door, puddles of corolla to caress weary feet, and but are the sweetest thing god hath ever made, but forgot to put a soul in."

Ryou fell backwards onto the bed, clenching the neckline of his sweater and brushing his wavy hair back.

"Flowers are the symbolic place holders of life, from when we take our loves hand in marriage to when we return as dust and ash to this earth. And each, oh, each holds their own special meaning from regret to forget me not. A rose is a rose is a rose, but oh it isn't! Each is so very special in its own light and nothing could ever hope to begin to outshine the passion it represents."

He sighed heavily in rapture and flopped both his hands over his head.

Bakura raised his eyebrows. "I don't know if that was born on drama or creative writing."

"Creative writing," Ryou smiled as he flipped up, giggling. "Drama isn't really my forte. But we had a unit over American literature and Catholicism, so I drew inspiration from there."

"Well it was beautiful," Bakura smiled.

His flower had developed a swift tongue for language, and he had a wonderful way with words that made Bakura proud. Over his long, vast life he had traveled this world tip to tip, hearing languages change and grow, die and be born. He had heard all sorts of different dialects, and none were as beautiful as the rolling Japanese that flowed from Ryou's mouth and mind, his heart and soul. All of his words were special and cherished to Bakura.

"Thank you, Baka." Ryou smiled softly in the manner that shattered Bakura's calloused and tough heart.

He stood and hugged Bakura, breathing him in while he could.

"When did you get so tall?" Bakura breathed against Ryou's hairline.

"This morning when I put on my boots," he laughed.

Bakura smiled and headed downstairs, Ryou following in his wake.

Today would be a good day. This day would only be him and his flower, his reason for living. There were no cracks in the glass, no fissures that would expand. They had put the nonsense brought on by school behind them, and now nothing could keep them apart.

"You know, Baka," Ryou said as they got in the car, "I think I want Azaleas."

The hardware store was partially outdoors with a network of large mesh skins stretched taunt over metal bones that protected the plants from the heavy rains, making them instead a light mist. Puddles had formed where the broken concrete aisles dipped low, and made an ersatz obstacle course for Ryou, who leapt this way and that in attempts to keep his boots dry.

"Careful," Bakura shot in his direction, a warning note in his voice. He trudged behind Ryou as through snow in lead boots, somberly, hands crammed in the pockets of his deep sable jacket. He shuddered against the wet cols and scrunched his neck in hopes that somehow the jacket collar would keep his ears warm.

The day, cold as it was, was still a good one for Bakura. He kept his watchful, protective gaze on Ryou, who skipped ahead, seeing just how far he could make it before Bakura called him back to his side as he did when he was young. Though, the difference now was that the leash was figurative, not literal as it had been when he was four, and now he pretended the leash was a long, slender chain tied around both his and Bakura's hearts, glowing silver from the light of the bond between them. He always was imaginative.

'_Tug it back,'_ he bade silently, '_drag my heart back to yours.' _

Bakura watched as the boy dipped in and out of the terra cotta potted foliage and weaved in and out of vision. It was like he was some jungle cat stalking a butterfly, he laughed, seeing Ryou chase some stubborn moth that hadn't yet fallen into hibernation.

"Ryou," Bakura chided playfully, "leave it be. The cold is hard enough on them; you're not making it any easier."

Ryou stopped, lips falling into an 'o'. He apologized to the moth and jogged back to Bakura's side.

"Do you remember when you took me to the butterfly house when I was little?" Ryou smiled brightly as he took Bakura's hand.

Bakura's vacant hand fell to the boy's hair. "Yes, I do."

"There were so many! All attracted by the garden. Do you think butterflies will come to our garden?"

"Yes, I do. They'll flock in droves to see your beauty."

The boy blushed. "Oh, Baka!"

Bakura smiled, wholesome, and said, "Go and fly your flowers; I'm going to find cactus."

Giggling, Ryou turned to run off, then stopped and added, "It suits you, cactus."

He bounded off before Bakura could ask what he meant. He rubbed his chin in thought. Prickly? Ryou couldn't have meant that, because aside from the occasional stubble he was clean shaven. Maybe personality? Although he never gave off the 'touch me and die' vibe when Ryou was around… Maybe he meant it as a compliment, that he was hardy…

He laughed, stopping mid step to hold his stomach as he did, and purely _laughed_.

How was it that his flower could be so simple yet so intricate simultaneously? His candid thoughts were wrought from ivory and obsidian, smoothed into a stormy silk and were _pure_. Bakura laughed as how he could over think something so modest, even despite its profound meaning. He hummed thoughtfully; cactus did suit him.

His thoughts then went to a fantasy he had visited many times already that day: Ryou in his garden. He imagined the boy upon his back, hand tangled in a snarl of his hair, spread against a blanket of gentle petals likened to sea foam. The foam washed in and pressed around the boy's body, froth to compliment cream, a cream cut by deep sapphire. It would be lovely, topped off by a lilac butterfly perched at the tipoff Ryou's small nose with his wide mocha eyes tilted to gaze at it.

It made him smile, it made his eyes crinkle, it made his hollow heart move in some residual note of pride that lied in his dead core. The Pharaoh had killed off these things long ago, yet this boy revived these long unused feelings.

When his eyes opened he was met with a wall of variant cacti, from cylinders to bulbs, from abstract to conical. At his side his fingers twitched – some masochistic internal want of pain – to touch the spikes. '_No,' _he told his body, '_no more of that.'_

When he reached out he grasped the pot. Progress.

Ryou skipped over the pot holes in the broken concrete, probably product of accidents and dropped plants. He laughed merrily, spirits high, feeling light and bubbly with thoughts of his Baka.

It amused him how puzzled Bakura had been when he told him he was like a cactus. Did he not see it? His resilience, how enduring he was? Bakura could withstand anything as far as he was concerned, just like the cactus, and Ryou's desire to be just like him flourished and enveloped him. He was soft, like something newborn and small, he thought, and Bakura was hardened from all his years, all his knowledge. There was nothing he could not do, nothing he did not know. It was as if he had hundreds of life times backed into his brain.

Ryou paused for a moment – in thought at least; his feet kept trotting and he careened on his heels – he didn't actually know how old Bakura was. He had never though to ask, simply because it wasn't important. Bakura didn't change or grow, no, not like Ryou did, he was just simply Baka.

He guessed that Bakura was inhabiting his thirties, not too green and not to old, but just right. The man had energy to play with him whenever he asked, but was so wise… maybe –

Ryou's supposition was obliterated as the world fell from beneath him. His eyes went wide with the adrenaline flood and his arms splayed to balance himself. It happened to slow, to slow to be reality, yet too fast to comprehend.

The heather sky curtained by wet mesh, the potted plants that still clung to health against the cold weather's wants, the row of low shelves, they all gave way to the damp concrete and agony. He fell, the too big heel of his too big boots catching the edge of one of the craters in the concrete, and came down hard on his knee.

The same knee he fell on at the hospital.

Immense pain shot through his body, like a serum of mordant, liquescent acid that now coursed through his veins and cauterized each vessel, melting down the tissue of each muscle.

Pain is a subjective beast, resolutely challenging to describe, but this was throbbing, shooting, obliterating madness. Everything, every sight, scent, sound, obliterated. Everything, save for the pain in his knee, obliterated. Every thought, obliterated.

All but one: scream.

He had never screamed before in his existence – not like this – but it was the last ditch option his mind could process. The sound was high, strangled with the ebbing ring of vocal cords bursting with strain. Tears came company with the sound. The stinging in his deep chocolate brown eyes spilled over the rims of his beautiful eyes and turned his lashes into a thorned wan of toothed bramble. From there he crumpled into a ball on the gelid and drizzly concrete.

When the sound his Bakura's ears, it tickled something deep inside him. From the time he heard those screams so many years back and _broke_… From all the killings that ensued after, until revenge ran out and it was just pleasure…

Until he realized it was Ryou screaming. The shock took hold of him, spasms ran through his unstable body, and his hands went slack and the small pot of cactus he held tilted forward and fell to the ground. It shattered upon impact.

As soon as the noise sounded he pivoted harshly on his heels and sprinted towards the scream. The ache in his joins, the burn in his long dead muscles, it was all forgotten as he pushed towards Ryou, he willed himself faster, extending his angular legs as far as they would reach and closing the gap so quick he could feel his hip pop. The oft forgotten ring at his chest began to glow. Bakura grasped it roughly and held it out, watching as it pointed one of the five blades north westward to his left. He slid around a low table of potted trees and half lost his balance, but recovered as the pads of his fingers brushed the wet concrete. He saw him then, wilted on the ground, and his bile and adrenaline laden stomach shot into his throat.

"RYOU!"

The word burst out from him with the very last ounce of dynamism he could give, thrown like some safeguard, some life preserver, to make Ryou hold on; he was here. His knees hit the rain puddle that Ryou was limply cradled in.

"Ryou," he trembled, hands going around the boy.

Ryou was sobbing, violently. He clutched at his knee, in too much pain to do anything else than let out a pitiful squeak.

Bakura lifted the paper-light boy, bending him to hold him at the thigh, not the crook of his knee, which Ryou tried weakly to grasp as he slipped in and out of delirium.

"Baka," he choked, fear deeply in his soft cry.

Heat washed over Bakura's body as the anger and hatred – solely directed at himself – set it. His fingers wanted to contort themselves into claws, to dig into something, but Ryou was in his hands, so he inflicted his desires upon himself. He bit into his lower lip and blood welled as freely as the fear, the fear that something was seriously wrong with Ryou, something crippling. This was the second time the boy had been hurt under his care, and it was still too close to the other episode for his raw scabs to heal. These were figurative, of course, but the hurt was real; the fear was like lemon, the anger like brine. He would never heal these. Never be free from the guilt. Ryou should – and it sickened him to think about the end – leave this world as he entered: pure, flawless, lovely, and innocent. But Bakura was evil, so evil, and was like poison to the boy. His presence drug the boy down, no matter how 'good' he tried to be; he still put Ryou in harm's way.

He ran, harder and faster than he did when he was trying to find Ryou. He had to get to his car, and from there the hospital.

Entirety passed devoid of recognition, and soon he was putting Ryou into the passenger seat of his sleek grey-blue car.

"B-baka… it hurts…"

Again, the fear in his voice.

Again, the pain in Bakura's gut.

"I'm going to get you to the hospital, it will be okay, I swear to you, you will be okay."

It was all he could manage before fear silenced him.

Ryou was too delirious to understand just what Bakura was doing, putting fear and loathing aside for him, and, that they were going to the hospital that Ushio was at…

Bakura ran around to the driver's seat and was turning the ignition before he was even completely in the car. When he was seated, his gaze penetrated the windshield. Flames erupted before him, their sharp heat clawing at him face, the massive energy they released blowing his hair back and drying his his eyes out. He saw a woman bent in an inhuman manner, he shoulders pushing free of skin and her spine was doubled up on itself. She had fallen… she had been pushed…

A sharp sob from Ryou broke the optical delusion, and the flames vanished. He turned the blaring heater down and slumped on the steering wheel, damp with cold sweat from his palms. He panted in attempts to get a sufficient amount of oxygen, trying to hold onto reality that was quickly slipping.

He laid into the accelerator, pushing literally pedal to metal. The roads were misty from the oppressing rains and he ran the risk of hydroplaning, but he had to get to the hospital as fast as he could.

His heart ticked with panic, palpitating dread through his internal network. He came up behind a car on the road and swerved around it, sweaty palms slipping on the wheel. The green lights of the console reflected against the sick sheen clinging to Bakura's face and neck like a fog bank. His eyes grazed Ryou's form, whose head rolled as if he had dozed off into sleep, but Bakura knew he wasn't when he saw the tight grimace that contorted – marred – the boy's face.

The sky had darkened into a deep slate, cut occasionally by streaks of lightening rumbling from the bottoms of rain gravid clouds.

He held back a swear purely fro Ryou's sake, instead growling at the sudden change of weather. The roads were bad enough, and he was driving like a Harpy Lady out of hell; he didn't need any more help. Still, Ra enjoyed his torture and a heavy drizzle began.

It almost obscured the hospital lights.


	12. As the World Falls Down

•As the World Falls Down•

He had to have appeared half mad.

Drenched, pure white tendrils clung to his face as he gazed upon the ER patrons with wide, feral eyes. They swiveled to and fro as they adjusted to the fluorescent light. His chest heaved as he held a barely conscious boy in his arms.

Oh yes, Bakura looked absolutely mental.

The walk to the counter was obliterated from his memory in adrenaline rage, unnoted as it was of little import.

"I need help."

His voice was a weak rasp, unearthly, unhuman. Since the Pharaoh destroyed his hearth and home and destroyed the inner mechanism that made him more than a beast, Bakura had never uttered those words, never asked for anything. Why should he? He, who was revered as the Thief King; he, who was vessel to Zorc Necrophades; he who had the means to take anything he wanted! "Help" was not something he had ever required, as no loner has, no, Bakura was above the faculties of mortals.

But Ryou had mended those broken pieces deep within the catacombs of Bakura's mind, had fixed up his neglected heart and made a spot for himself within. It was for this boy, his flower, that he bowed his head in pure submission and asked for help. For Ryou.

The receptionist looked up at him, at his deranged expression. "Wh-what do you need assistance with?"

Was it not obvious! He held in his arms a semi-conscious boy! Still, he answered the stupid tart with:

"He fell; I'm pretty sure it was his knee, I don't know, I didn't see. It might be broken."

The receptionist handed him a clipboard and tried to hide from his piercing gaze by looking into her computer monitor, clacking the keys to pull up some window of insignificant importance. "Fill out the paper work while we take him back. You'll need to wait out in the holding area."

A small noise came from Ryou and he weakly tried to pull Bakura closer.

"No. I won't leave him." Bakura shifted the boy closer, taking a protective stance.

"Sir, not just anyone can go back there. Who-"

"I'm his father."

He tried to hold back the growl, the snarl, the flash of teeth, the curl of his lip, he tried, but couldn't. The unholy noise made the receptionist shirk back. "Fine, but you still have to fill out the paperwork."

As to punctuate her sentence, two double doors fluttered on their hinges and a large male nurse rolled a wheel chair out. His dark skin glistened in the low fluorescent light, and when he spoke, his voice was a rich timbre. "Is that the boy who fell? Come along, we'll get him to an x-ray unit right away.

He vaguely registered the lack of Bakura's heat, and then the lack of support. His feet were up on something, and his arms lay across some object, but his head lolled. That much at least, he knew.

It must have been the cold that woke him.

Ryou muzzily lifted his head and looked at the blurred distortions around him. They sharpened, as did the pain in his head. His body began to move faster, his heart pump fresh awakening into his system. He blinked, absently noting a dull throb in his leg, and finally cleared up his vision.

He then realized he was lying on a metal table in a hospital gown.

Panic swung a sledge hammer into his fragile chest, already worn out from the continuous stress that the last few days had slathered onto him. His first thought was not concern for his own wellbeing, nut for where his Baka was, and how his Baka was, and why his Baka was gone!

He gave a startled yelp when the surface beneath him shifted and some machine rumbled to start. He looked around wildly, squeaking out "Baka!" as he entered some tube, the overhead lights being replaced by blackness. He struggled to slow his panting as he rationalized. One, he was in a hospital gown, two, he was conscious and the table was going into a machine, so that meant x-ray, right? Or CAT scan or MRI…

Ryou's knee throbbed furiously as his blood pressure rose, screaming for Ryou to remember and tend to it.

The hardware store. He had fallen.

Bakura had held him in his arms while he cried.

The guilt and remorse that brimmed up directly crystalized into ribbons that lacerated down his cheeks. How could he worry Bakura like that? Bakura's heart was rendered in two at even the smallest of upsets. If it were that rare occasion when Ryou was down, Bakura's mood would instantaneously color to match, and he would do whatever it took to make Ryou feel better. Bakura gave and gave to him no matter how much it reamed his heart in the process. And all this time spent protecting his Baka from harm was cast back in his face by his own hand. When Bakura was heart sick, it was purely physical, Ryou had secretly come to know as he grew. His emotions turned tangible; his anger turned to a heat that erubesced his skin, his jealousy and fear hand in hand would become a prickling sensation that made him twitch, and sorrow became a pain that left Bakura clenching his shirt approximately where his heart was at.

His Baka was good at hiding it, oh he was, but he also didn't realize just how much Ryou watched him.

And now, to know that he had irrevocably hurt Bakura and his protective cage was somewhere hurting and Ryou couldn't get to him, he wept.

Glass. He hated it. He would shatter it right now if it didn't have that damn crisscross of wire that prevented him from doing so.

It was the glass that separated him from his flower.

So instead, Bakura peered through it, watching as Ryou disappeared from sight into the gaping maw of the mechanical beast that would look inside of his flower's delicate body. He stared with a pleading look on his face, looking as if he were about to let out a pitiful whine. His arms were tight across his breast, his long fingers tearing, gnawing, into his bicep. His knees darted forth and back as he shifted his weight, nerves making him fidgety. Bakura had tendencies to catch cases of still-as-the-dead, so all of these subtleties that would appear normal to the humans around him revealed just how torn the fabric of his psyche was.

And he knew it. He knew it, but couldn't care. He was too engrossed in the fear for his flower. He was drowning, choking, blacking out from the heavy current of numbness that physically weighed down his limbs and swam in his system. He was cold, so cold, from the morgue-esque conditions of the hospital, from the dread.

His eyes flickered to the side as he heard something shuffle. To his horror, he saw that is was a corpse. The teethe were rotted, some non-existent in the swollen grey gums. The eyes were nothing more than holes in their sockets, carved out by some arcane device that left the flesh hanging in tattered strips. But the rest of the body, the rest that should have been mangled, was as smooth as waster across glass. It was _burned _smooth.

The corpse slumped forward in one of the chairs that were tucked in the corner by a plastic fern in the radiology ward, then fell to the floor in a wet slump. Beneath the corpse was a doll with wide chocolate eyes. It looked so life-like, as if it would start breathing – his breath caught in his throat and the air made a sick, regurgitive noise as it passes through his chest rather painfully; it wasn't a doll… it was an infant… and those were Ryou's eyes.

His hands hit the floor before his knees did, his back arching as every system told him to expel the contents of his stomach. He locked his teeth and held it in, however, much to his body's dismay. Through tear flooded eyes, he looked up and saw no traces of the corpse. Then, through the periphery of his sight, he saw the black scrubs of the man who had brought Ryou in.

"Mr. Bakura!" he shouted, rushing to Bakura's aid and extending an ebony hand out to him, which Bakura gratefully took.

He helped the distressed white haired man up and supported him. "Are you alright? Let's get you sitting down." 

Bakura shuffled along with him, gripping onto his hand. "I-I'll be fine, I just got… dizzy… from being worried."

The radiologist, Bakura assumed that's who he was, led him to a chair.

"Not there," he said weakly. He had no want of being where the imaginary corpse was. 

The radiologist the moved him inot the opposite chair, then looked up when an aggressive buzzing filled the room and a light above that damned glass window blinked.

"That's Ryou. His scans are done."

He returned to the light.

Ryou's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim surroundings that were illumed by a single, over-bearing white light.

A dark skinned man fell into his vision, and Ryou gave a startled little yip. Never had he seen such dark skin on a person; it looked like this man was cut from the night sky. It awed him.

"Oh, Ryou, I see you're awake!" He smiled down at him with blindingly white teeth. "That's good. I'm Aki Izayoi; I'm your radiologist. You just had an x-ray so that we can see what's going on with your little knee. These will take a bit to develop, so we'll get you all set up in a room. Your father is out in the waiting room; would you like to go see him?"

"Baka." It was pleading, wanting, relieved all in one; his heart fluttered. 

"Pardon?" Izayoi said, not sure if he heard him right or not. Surely the small boy wasn't calling him and idiot!

"Oh, s-sorry. It's what I call him… Can we go now?" He tried to sit up, but his chest felt abnormally heavy.

"Here, let me get that." Izayoi lifted the lead vest that was protecting Ryou, then helped him into the wheel chair adjacent to the machine. 

"Thank you," Ryou said.

_I'm coming, Baka._

The first sight of Ryou scared Bakura.

He was pale like watered down milk, his skin translucent and exposing the veins beneath. His eyes and cheeks were pinpricked with little scratches of red, like he had been crying. The over-sized mass of sea-green gown made him look so thin… starved… and peering from the folds of the gown was Ryou's knee, black with surfaced blood.

"Baka!" Ryou shouted when he saw him, sounding over joyed.

Bakura pushed himself from the chair and into a rolling cant which in two strides he was splaying his hand son the wheel chair arms and pressing his lips to Ryou's hair line. The boy reached up and roped his willowy arms around Bakura's neck. He let out a content squeak. "Baka."

"Mm, Ryou," he smiled against Ryou's tangled hair. It had dried from the rain and was now snarled in several places. Bakura would have to go home and wash and brush it.

Beneath his mouth he could feel the natural temperature of Ryou's flesh, beneath his nose he could smell the sweet yet soft scent that naturally permeated his presence, eradicating the wretched miasma of chemicals that the hospital belched out. This was right, good; his flower was going to be alright.

The radiologist cleared his throat, signaling for their moment to end. Ryou unlocked his arms from Bakura's neck and allowed him to stand erect.

"Let's get him set up in a room."

Bakura nodded.

"Baka," Ryou squeaked, and when he looked down, he saw Ryou reaching for his hand.

He took it and held him tight as they walked down the halls.

Ryou watched the door close. He watched Bakura look around absently from where he sat, twiddling his thumbs.

He felt so far away.

In his bed, Ryou felt isolated, tiny. His small hands trembled in his lap, wanting so badly to reach out to Bakura. An iron curtain seemed to fall between them, a barrier of silence that had no assailable points. Why? Bakura seemed fine in the hall , but now something was troubling him.

His voice was barely 20 hertz. "Baka…"

He stared at his hands, a white curtain nearly obscuring his peripheral vision. He almost didn't see Bakura start and lean forward.

"Yes?"

"Will you come and hold me like you used to when I was sick?"

He heard a rustle of cloth and then the strike of Bakura's shoes on the linoleum. When he looked up, the sweet, consoling smile that Bakura washed him in melted the iron curtain. "Of course."

He sat at Ryou's side and then swung his legs up onto the bed and laid out, inviting Ryou to cuddle up against him. The boy pressed his forehead against Bakura's neck and pressed his finger tips to the man's sternum. Ryou then felt the man's arms enclose his tiny torso.

"How is your knee?"

"I can't feel it. The morphine drip kicked in to fast." Ryou lifted his arm to show off the IV tube in his arm.

The needle had made him squeamish – the thought of _anything _going into his body made him squeamish – but he was thankful for the drip. It eased his pain without causing delirium, so far.

"I suppose that's good." He didn't sound too convincing.

Ryou found a small strand of hair to grip in his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's my fault."

Ryou's chocolate brown eyes pushed his forehead and eyebrows up as he looked up to Bakura. So that's what was causing the rift. "Bakura," he said, his full name feeling strange in his mouth. "Stop."

The man looked down at him, some foreign emotion written in his features. It sent a shockwave of remorse and pain through Ryou's heart.

"We're not playing the Blame Game," he forced himself to continue. "It was an accident. It's no one's fault." To seal his words he pressed a little kiss into Bakura's chest.

The man scooped him a little closer. "I remember when you used to sleep curled up in the crook of my arm." He chuckled, eyes warming.

"But I still do!" cried Ryou.

"I meant when your whole body fit."

Ryou giggled and tried to scoot closer to Bakura, but his knee prevented him from moving anymore so he decided to lie still.

Ryou's curious hands were soon toying with the Sennen Ring. He traced the ring portion, the delighted himself by making the blades dink together like wind chimes.

"Baka, you've had this thing forever, and I've never seen you take it off. Where did you get it? Is it special?"

His curiosity was overflowing today, and Ryou's face shaped into an inquisitive, if not innocent, look.

Bakura chuckled. "Would you believe me if I told you it was stolen from a king?"

Ryou's eyes went wide and his mouth popped into a tiny "A" of inquisitiveness. "Was it an evil king?"

Bakura laughed harder, making Ryou even _more_ curious. "You could say that."

Ryou wowed at him. His Baka was so amazing! He had so many stories, and knew practically everything about anything, and must've traveled the whole world! He was at least bilingual; that much Ryou knew because he was too.

"Baka," he started, getting the man's attention, "are you fluent in French?"

"Oui."

"German?"

"Nein."

"Spanish."

"No. No me gusta este lingua."

"Italian?"

"Si."

"Have you been to other countries?"

"Korea, China, America, Egypt, Italy, and India. Does your curiosity know no bounds?"

"Nope," Ryou giggled.

This experience was truly a blessed one in his eyes. Never before had Bakura willing given up so much about himself, but then again Ryou had never truly asked. The boy still had so many questions!

"Baka," he continued, tangling up more into Bakura's embrace. "How old are—"

Before he could finish the door to Ryou's room clicked open.

"Hello, hello, I'm doctor Montoya." He made a bustling show of shaking both their hands from the sockets. "Let's have a look see at these x-rays."

Both Ryou and Bakura's lips pursed into thin lines of dissatisfaction, Ryou at the fact that he had been interrupted, Bakura at the idea of another person touching his flower. But beneath that tight grimace lurked a hidden fear that made Bakura's heart hammer a little too hard to pass unnoticed. Ryou gave him a worried glance, but chalked it up to apprehension about what his x-rays would detail; he reassuringly stroke Bakura's sternum. But it wasn't the x-rays Bakura was worried about, it was Ryou's question. He most certainly did not like keeping secrets from the boy, but his age was — he did not know how the boy would react. He wanted a pure human guise for Ryou, not his true demonic person. He feared soon he wouldn't be able to dodge the boy's curiosity.

The doctor placed the x-rays onto the wall projector. "Well," he said, getting both of the white haired males' attention, "it's not broken. He'll just have some swelling. Typical parent over-reaction. We see this all the time.

Bakura let out a soft growl; he had not over-reacted.

"So does that mean we can go home?" Ryou asked quietly.

Doctor Montoya fiddled with his pen. "Actually, Mr. Bakura, I would like to have a word with you outside."

A sharp stab of fear lanced through Bakura's heart and his mind kicked to a thousand different scenarios, each more dreadful than the last.

He shifted Ryou off him, unable to meet his wide gaze. There was too much pleading, too much sorrow at his departure. "I'll be back."

Breaking free of Ryou's embrace was like pulling free of brambles and briar that were swallowing him down. Without so much as a glance to his flower, Bakura accompanied Doctor Montoya into the hall.

The door clicked and he began to speak. "Mr. Bakura, we cannot find any information on Ryou. No birth certificate, no shot records, no medical files, nothing."

The millisecond flicker of emotion on Bakura's face went unnoticed by Doctor Montoya, but he felt as though the widening of his eyes, the dilation of his pupils, and the tightening of his lips was written on his face with no hope of covering it up.

"He wasn't born here. We did his shots at home, I have a medical license to do so." That was a lie, but he could forge one faster than the doctor could search for it.

"That may be so, but we can't find any files on YOU either. No medical history, no credit records—"

"If this is about the bill I can pay cash." Bakura wasn't fronting here.

The doctor scoffed. "You, pay a two thousand dollar medical bill in cash?"

Bakura growled. "Money is of no object. I plan to pay and leave. I'm done with this."

"I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Bakura; your credentials are still in question."

Tremors racked Bakura's frame. His whole life he had lived in the shadows, subservient to no one, self sufficient. He had never had any need to show proof of identification, never had to assume and identity either for that matter. He wasn't about to start now. His hair blustered back as light and energy poured forth from the Sennen Ring. A ring for finding, useless in this scenario, but a device to draw energy from for other worldly powers. He took one, deliberate step forward to stare down Doctor Montoya, quite easily because he rose a good five inches over the doctor. Ever so gently his hands clasped around the doctor's collar and he lifted the pathetic man to eye level.

He could see the dirty, meek soul drifting from behind the man's dull, flat brown eyes. It disgusted him.

Seizing all control of the vessel before him, he uttered a single word.

"Forget."

Ryou gazed out the window of his room. The skies were a wet grey, product of an incessant drizzle.

The weather reflected his loneliness.

Bakura and the doctor had been out talking for the past fifteen minutes, and in that time Ryou had grown continuously more sad. The notion of feeling small returned and magnified with greater intensity. Each beep of the heart monitor that sung in time with the drip of morphine made him jump in fright. This place was so foreign; he had never been hospitalized. He was always healthy — Bakura made sure of it — and the few times that he was sick, Bakura took his care into his own hands. He had never seen a doctor, never had a check-up, no. Bakura always handled those things.

It was in this unfamiliar room that Ryou realized he was not like the other children.

Before he could dwell on it, his attention was caught by the sound of the door being opened. Bakura slinked in, wiping at his nose. His shoulders were hunched over and he looked incredibly weary.

"Baka!" Ryou's voice was a mix of elation and worry, catching in his dry throat.

Bakura's head snapped up and he gave the boy a wide grin. "Guess what, Dork. We're leaving."

Ryou's whole demeanor perked. "Really!"

"Yep, I talked Doctor Montoya into letting you go home. He's sending a nurse up as we speak."

"Oh, Baka, thank you!" The boy beckoned the man over and threw his arms around his neck, the over sized gown slipping down and allowing for his arms to blossom free of it. He could feel Bakura's warmth and the rustle of his breath near his ear as his beloved guardian let out a soft chuckle.

"I'll cook you anything you want," he said with a rich rumble in his voice. Bakura wrapped his arms around Ryou's small back and picked the boy up slightly from the bed, deepening their embrace.

A small gasp burst from Ryou's lips. "Even rice and gravy? You normally hate to cook that because it takes so long!"

Bakura laughed. "Even that. Anything for you."

The boy squealed in delight and squeezed Bakura even tighter. He loved his Baka with all his might and decided then and there that this little upset had only made them stronger. He saw so many facets of Bakura's heart, hard like a diamond, shot through with light and darkness. He loved both intensely and found himself craving all of Bakura. His scent made the rapid hammer of his frightened heart palpitate into easy thumps, and his warmth soothed him. Warmth it may be, but the morphine also had a hand in this all and Ryou could feel the droop of his eyelids. Slipping from Bakura's embrace, he looked out into the window once more and saw the sun part the clouds.

And then he drifted into sleep.


	13. Unravel

•Unravel•

He hated those damn crutches.

He hated that damn brace.

Bakura's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he hit another bump in the road, broken gravel and various pot holes jostling the two poles of metal pressed up against Ryou's leg in the floorboard. The metal grate added to the endless drone of the wet road which rubbed on Bakura's nerves more than the sight of Ryou's broken chrysalis hugging his periphery. Ryou shifted his injured leg, which was now ensconced in a brace that stabilized his weakened knee. He had decided that after a day-and-a-half's rest was all he needed to be up and moving, having no desire to miss any school when the dreaded exams were so near. Bakura had objected, but Ryou always managed to get his way when it came to the overbearing cuddle-monster he turned his Baka into. With the aid of his crutches – courtesy of Bakura's wondrous attic – Ryou had managed to get himself up and ready for school. Bakura, on the other hand, was planning on his milking of it and skipping school barely could roll out of bed this morning. His wild, immaculate hair stuck up on one side and stuck to his face on the other, and he left the house in his pajamas. Ryou loved the effect this had on his appearance; he looked like some ancient elf. His angled features were accentuated by the profile view Ryou gazed at him with from the passenger seat, his jaw, nose, and eyes all exquisitely arched, imparting ideas of a gentle strength. His loose wife beater flashed off the bulge of muscles on his rangy arms, built from lifting up Ryou's whole essence in the resilient things, from physically lifting to all the lovely figurative ways that the man made him soar. The poof of his baggy pants flashed that concave tight hug of his waste that Ryou innocently desired until he was sick with a harmless envy; no matter what he did he always had that convex little rise to his smooth tummy, product of baby fat. To top off the raiment, as icing on the delicious cake that Bakura was, he wore his slippers, toes peeking out as he drove, which made Ryou strike up a soft giggle when he looked over.

"What's so funny?" Bakura tilted his chin to look over at Ryou. 

"You look funny." His giggles punctuated the response.

Bakura grinned, though it was sterile. It was hard to share in the mirth when he could see the blaring beacon of his failure as a parent writhing like a parasitic weed around his flower.

"Baka, you're going to drive past the turn again if you don't pay attention." Ryou's tone was innocuously wry as he thought of their little undertaking on his first day of school.

Bakura laid into the brake and blew out a harsh breath, his cheeks puffing up from the voluminous content of the stress his sigh carried. Ryou reached over and poked his cheek.

"Sheesh, Baka, soon I'll have to be driving _you_ around if you keep zoning off. Going senile on me, you are."

Ryou tilted his chin and crossed his arms; his anodyne banter with Bakura sparked a playful note in the grumpy man's heart. He reached over and poked Ryou's cheek back, breaking the boy's subdued façade. From there, his giggles became infectious and Bakura momentarily could forget everything and for once simply live in the moment.

It ended too swiftly.

Bakura pulled into the line of parents in the throes of the daily ritual of kicking their birdies out of the metal nest for school, Ryou already shifting his things. He had swapped out his two-strapped backpack for a messenger bag, something he could carry easily while maintaining the use of his crutches. To make up for them not buying flowers for their garden, he and Bakura had spent the previous night painting white flowers on the crutches. Of delicate hand and talent, Ryou's flowers were sharp, five petaled effigies that looked as he had cast actual florets into enamel to preserve them until eternity waned. Bakura's, however, were fat, heavy, and globular. Chided at several times by Ryou for using too much paint, his had no evident consistency in shape, orientation, or petal number.

And Ryou loved them all the more for it.

"They're like humans," the boy had mused. "Each special and messed up in their own right. Not a one is at all perfect; they're real."

"Humans, huh?" Bakura had retorted with a harsh laugh. "If I were painting humans, I would have chosen a much uglier color."

His statement had irked the boy momentarily and dead silence writhed between them until Bakura sneezed which such ferocity that somehow he had painted an entire streak of white across his face in some after effect of trying to cover his mouth.

Ryou smiled at the sweet memory as he shifted his crutches.

"Oh, Baka, you don't have to pick me up on time today; I want to stay after and go to the library."

Great. He would have to kill time. Quite ironic for the immortal, but when one desires something with the severity that Bakura did Ryou, things have a tendency to take on a sense of urgency.

"Alright, love. I'll give you some change for the pay phone so that you can call." Bakura rummaged in the dashboard console and pulled out a few dingy coins and deposited them into Ryou's outstretched hand.

Ryou gave a nod and a cute grin, giving his thanks and pocketing the money. He tucked his crutches under his arms and said his goodbyes sweetly, then turned and hobbled off.

His lame gait made Bakura sick with guilt.

"Woah! Ryou! Wicked knee brace!"

"Oh, Ryou-kun! Are you hurt?"

"Man, that's super special scary!"

"That bites!"

Joey, Teá, Yugi, and Tristan all quickly crowded around Ryou, clamoring on about his health. As happy as he was to see his friends, it was all a little too overwhelming for him and he found himself getting dizzy.

"I-I n-need to sit."

Ryou slid into his seat with a soft sigh of exhaustion. He had forgotten just how annoyingly loud his friends were. At this thought, he scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes. _'Great. I'm turning into Baka.'_ It made him chuckle. As much as he adored Bakura, and yes, even having grown up he still wished to be exactly like him, he hoped he never developed the same short temper for others that his beloved Baka had. That was one feature that uniquely belonged to his double.

His other friends sat down and calmed, Ryou's energy spreading out over the vicinity and equalizing. At a warmed touch to his hand, he opened his eyes and saw Teá giving his a compassionate look.

Ryou inhaled and began to speak. "I'm fine. I just hurt my knee this weekend. It's no big deal."

Joey, ever running his mouth, chimed in first. "Way to take it like a man and shrug it off! Atta kid!"

Ryou inclined his head to him. "Thanks. But I ended up having to go to the hospital. We thought it was broken. I swear Bakura was scared out of his wits!" 

"You call you father by name?" Yugi's tone was one of incredulous disbelief.

Ryou shirked a little from the stares he received. "Well, yeah…"

Joey gave a soft shiver. "My dad would beat me senseless if I called him by his first name!"

"But, that's what he taught me… When I was first learning to speak, he tried to teach me to pronounce his name, but I couldn't speak well enough, so I called him Baka. And that just stuck."

"Idiot!?" Tristan's eyes grew into wide saucers.

Ryou's adolescent devices kicked in and he subconsciously went on the defensive, trying to defend himself, his Baka, and not face the ridicule of his valued friends. Human nature, and his young, tender bud of his teen years, dictated his actions, his desires, to the very fiber of his subconscious core. He strove to be accepted within his social echelon with slipping fingers, trying desperately to grasp at the sanction fading from reach.

"I don't mean it disrespectfully! It's just the drop of the "ur" in his name. Besides… he likes it…"

"Your dad is weird," Teá snorted at him. "My dad practically begged for me to learn and say "da-da" or something first! He would never teach me his first name."

"Yeah," added Joey, "Fathers don't do that."

"My Grandpa didn't either," agreed Yugi.

But… Bakura _was _his father. He believed this with every fiber of his being and had no evidence to doubt it. Bakura raised him. Bakura cared for him, nurtured him, and was his only memory. It didn't matter if normal fathers did teach their kids their names. It didn't matter what people thought of their relationship. Bakura was his and he was Bakura's. Nothing and no one could deny it, not when Ryou was the spitting image of Bakura. The snowy hair, the glossy brown eyes, the skin tone, mannerisms, none could deny these striking traits shared between the two males. White was not natural. White was not common. Ryou got it honest from his Baka, and no one could take that away from him.

"Well, I guess my dad is just really laid back." How Ryou kept his tone so nonchalant escaped him; he was unaware that he even had such dark devices at his disposal.

"Maybe it's because he's so young?" Tristan chimed in. "I mean, at first I thought the white hair was from being old, but seeing yours I see it's just a feature of you two. Up close, you can really see how young he looks!"

"Yeah!" Teá pressed a fingertip to her overly glossed lips in attempts to come off as thoughtful. "There's not a wrinkle on him! Just how old is he anyway?"

Ryou paused. He didn't have an answer for that. Bakura had never told him, and the one time he tried to ask he was interrupted. He had entirely forgotten about this question since Saturday…

"I don't know. He's never told me."

_Please don't ask more… please… _

"Well, don't you celebrate his birthday?" Yugi asked and inhaled as though he was about to begin a long winded story probably involving his grandfather and some crazy antic about how his age is pushing the limits of cake to candle ratio, but Joey quickly interrupted him.

"Yeah, you gotta buy them stinkin' numerical candles and what not," he fumbled over his words in his highly Americanized accent, rolling his wrist as he struggled to find his word and then snapping his fingers when it came to him.

Ryou bit his lip against the insurmountable surge of guilt that their words brought. In all his fourteen years with Bakura, all fourteen years of celebrating birthday after birthday of his own, never once had Bakura's own birthday crossed his thoughts. He wanted to bury his face in his hands and weep in guilt. Every September, on the second day of the month, Bakura celebrated the anniversary of his existence. The man always made him a burned caked with too-sweet icing and pastel candles, growing in number as the boy matured and grew for his Baka. Why had he never thought to celebrate Bakura's life? How could he have been so selfish to go his entire life without celebrating the man he loved? He shook in pure remorse, disgust, and loathing towards his inattention.

"We—" Ryou's voice broke before he could even squeeze a single word from his distraught throat.

Tears threatened to surface, and he trembled with the intensity in which he tried to smother all sensation by means of. It was no good, _he_ was no good, the tears stung at his eyes in a last ditch effort to rid of this pain before his tiny body burst from its magnitude.

But, before the impending tide rose and the crests broke on the shores, Mr. Kiyoteru bounced into the room and silenced everyone. "Settle, settle! Everyone, seats!"

Ryou's friends dispersed from him and he felt the solitude set in, and his tears fell in heavy drops onto his desk, perfects circles of his imperfect heart break.

'_I'M GOING TO CUT ALL OF THIS DAMN MESS OFF!'_

Bakura shoved his bangs back with his unconstrained hand for what he clocked as the seventeenth time since he had sat down. The pen in his other hand hit the table in an angry clatter as he threw it down in a childish fit and stood up, bucking the table a good few inches back with his thighs.

Bakura had arrived home and set about his head-of-householdly duties, of which included the bills. The house was paid off; he had returned to Japan and settled this time, sick of the people and sick of the memories. Here was the closest place to having a fresh start, as he deluded himself into thinking at the height of his despondency. But, now he considered this home. Japan was originally an escape, since the people had a strong tendency to keep to themselves, but now living here, this country, all held his fondest memories of Ryou. His milk tongue was a mix of Japanese and English from Bakura's preference and the need to be able to communicate, and it gave Ryou and accent that Bakura adored. So yes, this became home.

And he was determined to take care of it.

The bills weren't in his name. Rather, they were in the name of the previous owner.

She had died in the house of old age, and Bakura had assumed her affairs. Since she had already accepted his offer to buy the house, which had been on the market for years with no success, he had decided that it would be easier to masquerade as her son rather than assume a false identity or propagate papers. It was easily done since she was a widow with no heirs; the long lost son stepping in to settle out her belongings and assets only seemed natural. He had paid for her burial and plot himself, then had the house cleaned and her possessions sold, money then donated to an orphanage. He had not done it out of compassion or sense of need, simply as a means to tie up loose ends and silence one more human from this forsaken world. The utilities and payments remained in her name, but were paid from a bank account that he had opened once he came to Japan. The bankers had been easy enough to fool, and little by little he deposited the wealth he had accumulated over the years into a high interest account. That, combined with his selling off of ancient artifacts that he had picked up in his earliest centuries had left the man with more than enough money to never have want of anything. Having the bills set to pay from his account was a simple matter as well; the companies didn't complain so long as their money came.

So he had diligently sat and paid his bills ever since coming into this house, and today was no exception.

Bakura shoved at his bangs again as he stormed to the bathroom, the stair case giving protestful screams as each forceful stomp warped at the aged wood. He made it up the staircase that opened directly into his bedroom and veered to the immediate left and into the bathroom, wrenching open the sink drawer. Ryou had staked claimed on this drawer, and once it flew his standard he had raised cities of clips and barrettes, nestled in fields of hair ties and mountains of headbands, plastic and elastic alike.

Bakura snagged a mahogany colored plastic headband with ferocious looking nubs for teeth and jammed it through his hair. His messy white chaos was, for the better part, restrained, but the tips of the headband pressed the stems of his reading glasses (which were solely reserved for when he was crunching, losing himself, and drowning in numbers) and made them sit wrong on his face, distorting his vision and giving him a sudden head ache. He wrenched the mechanism off and instead settled for two sea green clips with white polka dots that were Ryou's absolute favorite. The boy had an easier time managing his hair than Bakura; Bakura's was simply... Feral.

Hair in check, Bakura emerged into the shared bedroom. Ryou had sat at the edge of the bed and used his crutches to pick up their scattered laundry this morning in attempts to clean up after a lazy weekend. This had been the catalyst to Bakura's early rising, earning Ryou a worried scolding about over exerting himself. It was then that Bakura realized he was dressed for school and that his flower had no intention of missing out on its daily dose of sunshine. Also, they were running late.

He took Ryou to school and then returned home and started the bills. He preferred to boor over them when Ryou was out of the house, just in case his infernal curiosity sparked a fire that Bakura couldn't put out. It sickened him something he so loved he had to distance himself from out of fear. Fear of rejection. He could never even begin to sort out how Ryou might react if the whole truth came out.

Nor how long he could shield the boy.

His decade and a half long fight to upkeep Ryou's innocence deepened and he feared drowning in waves of excruciating lies. Day by day the sand grew harsher on his flower, water more scarce. The oasis of his arms encasing the petaled innocent dried with each lie, each falsity that circumstance created. Soon Ryou would pry at the fault lines of Bakura's soul and out forth every concealed truth would spill. He couldn't lie anymore. He couldn't withstand the heart rendering stab within that Ryou's sweet innocence brought each time Bakura had to deceive him. He regurgitated almost daily now from the way he tore his stomach up with worry.

Things were not okay.

Too much had happened in too little time, a catastrophic uproar that Bakura had a harsh time recovering from. While he had seen the world change before his eyes, change did not come swiftly. Foreign entities came slow, seeding themselves and growing slowly until they meshed into society as though they had been there the whole time. The articles of the past week, however, were caustic sycophants, settling only for complete disintegration and ruin of Bakura's everything. His relationship with Ryou was fraying ever so; never had so many tears been shed between them. Ryou's injury had been the apogee of each small ripple in their perfect surface. The first ripple stemmed of the bract shed as Ryou grew to adolescence. The surface had been a mirrors edge in his growth, his fragile petiole protected by the small leaflets of incorruptibility. But in the limpid shoal, Bakura saw himself unblurred in Ryou's mere and with apostatized hand tore the fronds away in jealousy, leaving a small and naked boy forsaken in blades of physical suffering, writhing in a consequence of Bakura's tainted actions.

Or so he felt.

Bakura had done nothing but give Ryou everything he asked for, and tried his best to protect him in any manner he could. He had given up rage and hate, his eyes no longer flitting to the color of dried blood as his empyreal efficacy rose in come-at-me-and-die mode, and most of all he had kept that dark self away.

The other half. The sinister soul that lurked within, hungry for a host to seethe himself on.

Once Bakura had been impatient, angry, and entirely selfish. He had abused people to attain his own ends. He was self-destructive and hell bent on revenge. In the past, he was a Thief.

No. That was _him_.

_'No, it was US.'_

Bakura flinched and recoiled heavily, falling back onto the bed.

"No, no please no! Not the voices! Not again!" Rough tears spilled down Bakura's cheeks, his eyes transfixed ahead at some nonexistent hell.

_'Voices? I'm the only one here.'_

"Go away!" Bakura screamed into the dim scene, clawing at his ears.

No, this couldn't be! Bakura had gotten rid of _him_! He had silenced him! Ryou had healed Bakura enough that he had regained ascendancy over _HIM_. He gripped onto the Sennen Ring, the enchanted Egyptian gold absorbing the fear and hurt he poured into it. Something constricted at his lungs and his vision flickered.

_'You're so much fun to play with, "Baka".'_ The voice soothed to him with a sharp sneer and Bakura felt chill spread through his arms in an area that felt like cold hands touching him.

"Stop, please..." It was a pitiful plead, weak with no resolute behind it.

The Sennen Ring hissed with a possessive glow, desiring a taste of something Bakura didn't have to offer. He felt a heated stickiness clot at his upper lip and drip down. He looked at the little stain on his pant leg, knowing before seeing it was blood.

It wasn't long before he was passed out on the bed, the ring's glow dead.

Ryou gave a protestful whine and crossed his arms tight across his chest, cold in the loose fitting fabric he had changed into. He disliked the way it made his chest tighten; it was embarrassing.

Ah, but those were the joys of high school P.E. The awkward clothing change in front of your peers, the uncomfortable clothing that showed every nasty drip of sweat and the shorts that seem to chafe each ungodly part of skin between one's legs, and then the terrible feel that you are an utter failure in life because you can't climb a rope or dodge a little rubber ball that managed to impart it's red hue on which ever part of the flesh it happened to hit.

Ryou loathed P.E., but it wasn't due cause by the afore mentioned grievances; it was for the teacher, Mr. Karita.

The teacher constantly bullied Ryou for his effeminate looks and long hair. Ryou didn't like to talk about it. Ever.

But Karita was hell on Ryou's confidence. It hadn't started outright as bullying; Karita was a right foul bastard to all of the students. However, as the weeks of school progressed, Ryou began to be singled out, starting with jabs at Ryou's lack of athleticism. But the sweetheart took it as encouragement to try harder, to prove to himself and Karita that he could be of use. It was only recently that the attacks had become more personal.

He loathed telling Karita that he was injured and couldn't participate. He had been dreading it for the last two classes, Physical Education coming right after lunch. Ryou dressed out for the class, not desiring a demerit on his record. It would undoubtedly show on his report card, and one could count on Bakura to see. Ryou feared Bakura's questionings would lead to him somehow finding out that Ryou was being bullied, which terrified him beyond reason. So far the attacks hadn't been physical, just verbal. Ryou could handle that; Bakura's happiness was much more important.

"Mr. Karita," Ryou said lowly as he bowed before the imposing man. "I cannot work out today."

His statement was met with a sneer. "What did you do there, Ryou? Trip yourself skipping home to your fairy father?"

Ryou was silent.

"Fine. Go sit with Teá; I'm sure you two girls can find something to talk about."

Ryou pursed his lips, but he was glad the interaction had been brief. Adjusting his crutches, he made his way to where Teá lounged across the bleachers.

"Hey, Teá," Ryou's voice was barely a whisper, not having the strength or resolute to force out anything louder.

The annoying brunette tossed a casual gaze to Ryou, lacking the courtesy to get up of her elbows and offer Ryou a place to sit. He paid it no mind and focused on not getting tangled up in his crutches of the deadly foot tall bleachers. Teá was allowed to sit out for P.E. each day, as some sort of managerial type position. Rumor had it that she arranged some sort of underhanded deal with Karita to do so. Ryou paid this no mind either. He liked to forget about anything involving this jilted class as soon as it was over. Which for the most part worked.

"Hey. Is You-Know-Who still giving you hell?"

Ryou nodded softly.

"Maybe you should cut your hair to get him off you back, you know?" Teá reasoned. On one hand, she had a point, but Ryou wasn't about to modify himself just because someone didn't like the way he was. Besides, Baka would get suspicious. "I mean, I know you and your dad have about the same hair style, but what does your mom say about all of this?"

Ryou's lissome eyebrows distorted into a gesticulation of confusion. "I don't have a mom."

Teá loosed a high-pitched noise. "What! Are you serious? Why not? Did your mom and dad get a divorce?"

Every inch of her tone reflected the scandalous, taboo nature of getting a divorce. Generally those who did were outcast from their family.

"No!" Ryou yelped quickly in return. "It's nothing like that! I've never had a mother. I don't see why I'd need one any ways; I have Bakura."

Teá's eyes softened, "Well, there's no way you could be adopted, so did she die in child birth or something?"

"In _what!?_"

Ryou had no idea what the words that came out of the brunette's mouth meant. Adoption applied to like, puppies and stuff! And the last thing she had said was just confusing and gross sounding… especially if you could _die _from it. Ryou shivered and held himself.

Sensing the land mine she had stepped of, Teá laughed like a sheep and brushed it off. "Oh it's nothing. Just, ask your dad about it when you get home, okay?"

Ryou nodded, not so sure he wanted to.

Bakura lay curled up in the bottom of his shower, cold water spilling down on his body. Shivers, convulsions, electrical impulses seared though each layer of tissue with each hard thud of his heart. He was wired with energy that did not belong to him, his body weakened as _he_ used every faculty to surface.

Omniscient's twist entailed two halves of a whole reconciling in a melee on a psychological level that manifested in physical break. The damaged soul fragments were fighting on a darkened precipice, tied to the main body with the iniquitous piece so near to cutting the rope and purging both in darkness. Bakura was losing himself, losing himself to _his _self. No longer could he pretend that it was a separated anima whom housed the eternal self within him; it was coming clear that it was him, but not him, _him_. In the recesses of his torn heart, he had separated his principle and allowed it to be warped with hatred.

He was The Thief King Bakura, known as Akefia, the vessel to the fractured piece of Zorc Necrphades' soul, bearer of the Ring and Seeker of the Sennen items, the integral piece, the key keeper to open the depths of the shadow realm.

No, he was Bakura, guardian of Ryou. He was a normal person striving to make everything perfect in the world to nurture his sweetened child.

No, he was both.

And the elder half was trying to sew them back together, to recreate the monster.

The water evaporated from his body as soon as it touched, tendrils of wry steam surfacing from his heated body. The scene was a delineation of white: attenuated wisps coiled off of alabaster skin as clear, cold water drummed on the body and tile, and tangles of white hair spilled in fluid rings that clung to each tangible being it touched.

Were it not for the destruction of it all, it would have been beautiful.

_Please… _

At last the school day had ended and the flower was free, petaled chrysalis morphing into a butterfly with damaged wings.

Ryou glided down the hall way on his crutches, having got down the rhythm and sway of how to move on them.

The lights were already off in both the hall and the library by the time Ryou made his way across the building — granted, he would have made a swifter journey if the school owned an elevator and the stairs weren't so harrowing. His little lungs were huffing stale air and pumping weak carbon from his exertion, little beads of sweat percolating at the fringes of his cloud-hued hairline. He leaned on the door for a brief respite, and then pushed his way through, finding that the lock had yet to be secured.

"Mrs. Uriyadou?" Ryou called tentatively into the empty space. He heard a clatter from somewhere, and the saw the little brown head of the 20 something librarian.

"Ryou?! Is that you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Uriyadou."

"Well get over here and help me!"

Her tone was soft and playful; the young, busty woman was sweet enough to cause tooth rot and had and over bearing personality to match. She took immediately to Ryou, who frequented the library often and never left with less than an armful of books.

He swung on his crutches over to her as fast as the metal stilts would let him. Bakura had hand adjusted them, but the contraptions still proved to be too tall from Ryou's tiny build. He found Uriyadou amidst a pile of books, legs splayed and a clipboard tucked in her baggy overalls.

"Ryou, baby! Why didn't you tell me you were hurt!" Her eyes were wide saucers and even in the low light Ryou could see his reflection in her mocha eyes; he didn't look like himself.

"Because you gave me no time!" He laughed sweetly, a lilting noise that carried through the large room.

Uriyadou rose to her feet and dusted off. "How can I help you, heart?"

"I wanted to check out some books, please." Ryou said, blushing a tad at the affection in her voice.

"Alright. You know how to do it all, right? I've got to run to my pottery class. Just lock up for me, dear."

It seemed she was bustling past him and out the door before he could even formulate a semblance of a reply, leaving him alone in the dark library, lit with only a single light out of the horde of twenty-plus fluorescent bulbs. Sighing, Ryou began his perusal of row after long row of books, not knowing what he desired. He merely wanted a good read.

The library had a peculiar smell in regards to the mixing scent of old and new books masked by a sharp vanilla air freshener that had hints of a men's cologne. He chalked it up to Uriyadou's single self, boy-crazy and lacking the desire to hide the fact. Even in the low light, he could see the dust motes spiraling through the air. Be it power of suggestion or allergies, Ryou gave a powerful sneeze. When he cleared his head and blinked his eyes clear, he heard a soft thud and looked around wildly.

"Who's there!" His heart leapt into his throat and his skin prickled.

His eyes focused on a lump in the floor that looked like a cat, frankly startling the living day lights out of him in cause of the sheer sense of 'that should not be there'. When his eyes focused, the boy berated himself.

It wasn't a cat. It was a book.

"I really need to calm down! I'm causing myself to hallucinate." Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if Bakura ever hallucinated, but that was an absurd thought.

After some mental berating, Ryou walked between the narrow shelves and picked up the book. There was a certain grace in his movements that wasn't normally a part of his bearing. His eyes dashed darker, hid lids lower, the arch of his back more fluid, his fingers trailing a seductive hint of a higher bearing.

He wasn't quite himself in that instance.

But when he rose and blew of the chill of dust that had settled across the frayed cover the bright innocence had restored the hue of his eyes and he was purely Ryou once more.

"_Akefia, the King of Thieves…_ What a pretty title for a story." Ryou ran his little fingertips all across the engraved book, taking in the filigree that had a distinctive Egyptian flair. He playfully pretended that the book had been just for him, as if some archetypical divine intervention selected it to fall within his path.

Slipping the book in his book bag, he rocked between his crutches once more and began to head up to the front.

He couldn't wait to show Bakura his new book.

He couldn't help the twitch of his lips when he saw Ryou. He couldn't help the excited leap in his breast when his flower got closer to the car.

In a world where you own body attacked you, it was nice to have some form of salvation.

"Baka!" Ryou called as he swung his way in between the metal poles of his crutches, grinning from ear to ear.

Bakura returned his smiled and leaned across the seat to sweat open the car door to admit the basis of his affection. Ryou hurried to the door, excited and eager to head home. The boy laid his crutches at an angle in the floor board and slinked down and nestled himself into the seat, shaking off the cold. "Sheesh, Baka, it's almost winter time and you don't even have the heater on!" With trembling fingers the boy turned the small control knob on the console all the way into the red portion.

"Wasn't cold," Bakura offered with a shrug, trying not to let his discomfort at the heater show.

He hated the heat. Always. Forever.

"Malarkey!" Ryou shouted in some generated accent, playing.

Bakura laughed and began to pull off, desiring nothing more than to go home, get in bed – which now had clean sheets after a marathon laundry session – and curl up with Ryou and sleep. He would inhale the boy's soft scent and resonate with his warmth, the gentle, natural warmth as opposed to some ungodly, manmade heat. He smiled softly, seeing out the corner of his eye Ryou fidgeting with impishly with some pompom that hung from his sweater, batting at it. This was good.

He could forget earlier. All of it.

"Umm… Bakura…"

His nails sank into the wheel, his body tensing in response to the dread that seared through him. It was never good when Ryou used his name, and the weakness in his tone…

"Yes?" It was by miracle he kept his voice even.

Ryou fidgeted in his seat, wishing he could revoke his statement. Maybe there was still time, maybe he could just brush it off and… "What is child birth?"

Ryou blushed at his unconscious word vomit and tried to draw his knees up to his chest, finding difficulty in the action. Bakura on the other hand, broke out into sweat and swallowed down real vomit.

There was no way in the seven hells Ryou was ready for 'The Talk,' and he man wasn't quite sure he had the stomach to give it. Thus far – Ra be praised – Ryou had been a late bloomer; His voice was still soft and melodious, his tummy retained the sweet puppy-like bulge of baby fat, and Ryou for all intents and purposes was classified as short. Puberty had left him well enough alone. Bakura wasn't ready for that change and the perverse desires that came with it; teenagers were heathens and that just absolutely did not become his flower. He wasn't even sure if Ryou was capable of it.

The man had avowed to answer any question that he could were Ryou to ask, and this wasn't one of the few that would change Ryou's view of him… although it may lead to him asking why he didn't have a mother. That was absurd; plenty of children didn't have two parents.

"Ryou… Do you know where babies come from?"

Ryou pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "Hospitals?"

Bakura measured his breathing, knuckles turning white. "And how do they get to those hospitals?"

Ryou's though process was phantasmagorical, laced with horrific visions of manufacturing and assembly. "N-no…"

"Okay… You know what you have between your legs?" Bakura tried to ignore the blood vessels popping in his neck.

Ryou's brows furrowed. "I don't see what _that_ has to do with anything."

The elder male began to count. Ten… Nine… Eight… Should he hold out and get some reference material to do this? Sex was a stagnant thing, and as rusty as he may have been – lacking in the lust-procreate aspects of his animalism – he was sure he could explain it. Seven… Six… Five… Wait, he didn't want to show Ryou how to have sex! He merely needed to satisfy the boy's question as quickly as possible before it led to anymore uncomfortable things. There were videos… no, Bakura didn't want to show Ryou anything in that department, illustrated or natural. Four… Three… Ryou obviously knew of his own anatomy, thankfully, but he didn't know that there was more to it than the daily functions it provided.

'_Nor does he,' _Bakura growled internally. Well, his words were internal; he saw Ryou shirk a little at the growl that passed from his curled lip.

Ryou didn't need to know how; or why. That was something grown up adults did. His flower was far too tender; far too young. Ryou, in Bakura's eyes, would never leave the nest, never date, never have babies to bring and let Bakura bounce on his lap. He didn't need that; they had each other. It would always be them. It would always be the way it was now, the cuddling in bed on a fall morning, the combined efforts providing a meal for them, the sweet exchange of their days while Bakura scrubbed Ryou's hair.

Bakura couldn't bear for that to change.

'_So you want him to be immortal, just like you. How evil, 'Baka,' letting that boy age in a youthful body while his mind and heart are burned with the truths of humanity.' _

"Shut up!" Bakura roared loudly, screwing his eyes shut.

Ryou squeaked and jerked back, his eyes instantaneously taking on the glisten of tears. "B-baka…"

Brought back to his self, Bakura saw the damage he had done. "Oh, Ryou! I didn't mean you!"

Bakura pulled over on the side of the road and was parking and undoing his seat belt in one fluid lunge. He pulled Ryou against his chest, crushing weak butterfly wings within his grasp. His murmurs were sweet and low, holding all the pain he saw in Ryou's mere. "I didn't mean you, I swear. I would never never tell you that."

The boy released a small sob and pressed into Bakura's neck, blocking out all sight. He shook with a chill that was unwarranted in the male's warm embrace, hot tears covering the skin between them. Bakura prickled against it, but held the boy none the less.

Two… One…

"Ryou, when a male and woman desire to do so, they may lie together and make a child. The woman carries it within her body as it grows, and then she gives birth to it." Bakura had hoped to make it sound clean, and sacred, something Ryou knew not to pursue unless he was absolutely ready.

Unfortunately, this was not a sacred act anymore. Humans had given in to carnal desire and stupidity.

"A mother and father…" Ryou said quietly, some hint of awe in his tone.

Bakura tensed; he had no answer to Ryou's mother if he so asked…

The boy smiled and gave a cute giggle. "I'm glad you're my father, Bakura."

And that was that. Ryou gave no further indication of asking of whose womb he nurtured in, which calmed the rush of fretfulness Bakura fought to stomach without regurgitation. Quite frankly, he didn't have an answer.

Ryou nuzzled him once more in all his tearstained glory and settled back into his seat, gently nudging Bakura off. "Let's go, Baka; I'm starved."

Ryou nursed a glass of milk. "Nnn, Baka, how much longer?"

Bakura clicked his teeth at him in mock scolding and hushed him. "I have to finish the rice. It would go faster if you would take the chicken out of the oven for me."

Ryou set his milk down on the counter – of which Bakura stole a deep drink of – and trudged to the refrigerator and arched up onto his tip-toes to get two potholders. "Un! Too! High!" Several more grunts came from the boy before Bakura came behind him and reached over him and retrieve the necessary items.

"You're so tall, Baka~"

Bakura gave a low chuckle deep in his chest and laid the potholders on Ryou's head, going back to tend the rice. Ryou giggled and danced over to the oven, ending his routine with a flamboyant him flair into Bakura's side to usher him away from the stove so that the boy could open the oven.

"Mm, Baka, this smells so good!" Ryou practically purred as he set the casserole dish filled with steaming juices and three large chicken breasts on the counter. "Why did you make so much?"

"I figured we could use the extra for a soup tomorrow; it made quite a lot of broth."

Ryou whined and rubbed his tummy, giving Bakura the 'Big Eyes'. "Can I pretty _please_ take a bite? Just a little one?"

Bakura laughed to himself and turned the stove off. "It's already finished, dork. Get some plates."

Ryou practically leapt up and bounded over to the cabinet as Bakura stepped around him in an intricate pattern not by design. "You're going to trip me, Ryou!"

Preoccupied, Ryou ignored his protests and started to set the table.

There was an easy contentment that bathed the ether of the tiny kitchen, stemming from the love forged between the two males. Ryou tittered on in his custom manner, soothing Bakura's troubled heart; it was when Ryou shone that the immortal found respite from his thoughts. His flower in this moment transmogrified into his Sun, his light in the asphyxiating darkness. He felt a warmth not caused by the oven's heat or the warm food that was filling their bellies, no, it was born of the pleasure his beloved brought him. This was his child, his ward and charge whom he had protected him from infancy and raised into a fine young man. For once, Bakura could live in the exact moment, like a picture frozen in a drop of honey, lambent with their brimful elation. Ryou likewise fed off the happiness Bakura exuded, taking solace in his strong father. That term was used loosely between them, at their feeling the word was a blanket term, for what was shared between them was so much more. Their bond ran deep in flesh and soul, in blood and heart.

'Father and Son' was at once too much and not enough.

There was a light and a dark side to every mirror.

Bakura knew himself to be the dark. He could feel it enduringly, lurking, waiting for any chance to shatter what he had made with Ryou. He was the shadow in Ryou's sun light, and _He_ was the monstrosities that skulked there undyingly. He carefully calculated every single shift Ryou made. Calculation was not a virtue. It implied cunning, acumen, everything that as suckling babes our heroic stories tell us denotes 'evil'.

"Baka?"

Ryou's sweet voice always wrested Bakura from the darkest trenches of his psyche, where his inner demons bred and roosted. He saved him.

Time and time again, Ryou would save him.

"Yes, Ryou?"

"Can we skip doing the dishes tonight? I really want to show you the book I got today!" Ryou strained himself not to wriggle in excitement, making an amused smile touch Bakura's lips.

"I suppose." He kept his tone even, as though he nonchalantly dealt a trivial memento, hiding how happy Ryou's eagerness made him.

Ryou shifted slightly, a little encumbered now that Bakura had forced him to put his knee brace back on; the man hated it, but it would make him heal faster.

"Stay, dork," Bakura said as rose and brushed back the fine strands of Ryou's bangs. "When was the last time I gave you a piggy-back ride?"

Ryou popped up and transfixed his wide gaze on Bakura. "Really? You haven't done that since I glomped you and made you throw out your back."

Bakura gave him a wry smile. "So that pounce-tackle has a name now?" He picked up the boy and shifted him around.

Ryou instantly clamped his waist with his legs, nuzzling his Baka's neck. Bakura hummed as the weight settled on him, right and full. His body was light, but it impressed the feel of another person on Bakura, an intimacy that the body craves subconsciously. Before, in the days shorn of sunshine, weight was miserable for the man who felt hollow and without substance yet forced down into his bed by heavy shackles of despondency. Limbs were heavy. His chest was heavy. He was dying, then… as much as an immortal can die.

"Onward, Baka! Tally ho!" Ryou shouted and pointed his finger upwards, mimicking a nautical acquisitions and distribution specialist.

Bakura chuckled and carried him upstairs, slinking past the bedroom door and twirling the boy onto the bed, fluffy comforter cushioning Ryou and acting as cradle. Bakura slinked on top of him and nuzzled at his neck. Ryou cried out and playfully hit at Bakura as though the man were too heavy for his body to hold, and although the man barely had any weight on the boy, he rolled off and flopped against the pillows.

Ryou, yawing, rose to dig in his book bag for his latest treasure. "It's a really cool looking book, Baka. It has all sorts of Egyptian filigree and neat names.

Bakura rolled up onto his side and tucked his hand at the back of his head, fingers snarling in the messy strands. He had taken Ryou's clips out of his hair before he went to pick him up today at the notion his hair wouldn't be slumping forward to obscure his vision.

"Egyptian, huh?"

Bakura was not too fond of anything pertaining to that place; too many emotions were stirred up at its mention, especially fear. He was tied to that place irreparably, being the place of _His _birth and the source of his pain, immortality, and where the ghosts of his heart left gentle footprints in the harsh sand, only to be made forgotten by the mystic winds. But it was something Ryou seemed to take an interest in. The beginnings of civilization were there, of history recorded, so his fascination was well warranted. But Bakura much preferred Ryou's tastes in fantasy; magic and tales of chivalrous cavalry and forbidden – and chaste – trysts were much less harmful.

"Here, Baka," Ryou said as he hoisted the book from its woven confines, "It's old and fragile, but it's like it chose me. It's called−"

Bakura's eyes traced the title again and again. It wasn't possible… "_Akefia… _the Thief King…"

Ryou shifted closer. "It's actually _Akefia, King of Thieves, _Baka."

There should be no such record. This should not exist. His tale wasted away with the Pharaoh's rotted corpse… the only living artifact of his existence was the Sennen Ring… and he was the sole being who had ever possessed it in the flesh after it was stolen…

Something snapped within Bakura at that moment.

His mind was gone…

The man's body began to tremble, softly at first like his core was shifting. Then some internal gate broke and everything poured forth. Coaxed by Wrath came rage and the onset of a violent shaking, lulled by Envy came the demons that sought to corrupt, sin, sin, sin they came! Lust raked his fingertips against Bakura's body, pulling him down with the others, all while Pride surfaced to watch, but rather Akefia in Pride's mask, wrapped in Gluttony. This boy before Bakura was a treasure to be taken, to be savored, and Greed – Gluttony's twin – was more than excited to be apart. Sloth was held at bay, for ambition is only checked by ambition. His cardinal sins and capital vices poured from the crack in his soul, growing wider with each weak heart beat that the real Bakura could offer.

"Where did you get that book?"

Ryou, oblivious to the storms inside, turned to his fiend incarnate. "The library at school. It fell off the shelf as I was turning down the aisle; it's like it chose me."

Bakura shook like a tree against a storm, shivering from the bow up. There was too much coincidence there; too much that could not be.

Ryou's gentle brow furrowed when three dark blots formed from underneath Bakura's skin… no, they had fallen there.

Ryou gasped and threw his hands up against his lips. "Baka! You're bleeding! What's wrong?!"

The child began to cry in fear, worried for his guardian, the iron gate that protected his garden. The man was silent in his apophasis. He reached out for Bakura, who recoiled. Ryou could have sworn his eyes were red.

There was a trickle of blood running from Bakura's left nostril, spilling over his chapped lips and then falling down to his hand. Blood scared Ryou. It always had.

"Please, Baka, talk to me!" The boy was an absolute mess, his tears streaming down in hot rivulets. Bakura ignored him.

He had to. He had to get away.

The man rose, the movement knocking something back. He saw nothing but the hall in front of his to which he descended down the stairs. Little drips of blood fell and hid in the old cracks and became the dark lacquer finish to a house which until now Bakura had done all but bled for. The linoleum was cold against his feet, once of the last things to heat in this old house, and he knew what awaited him. He bypassed his coat and went straight into the garage.

Bakura was gone, gone, gone.

Ryou grunted when Bakura pushed him back against the bed.

What had he done so wrong?

Ryou curled up in the epicenter of their bed and their destruction. Something was terribly wrong with Bakura, he was hurting and keeping secrets from him and the man was bleeding and shaking for no reason. Ryou hadn't forgotten about his nose bleed a few weeks ago. Something was wrong and stupid Baka was hiding. Stubborn Baka was trying to protect Ryou and the boy was sick of it. He wanted him to be able to tell him if something was wrong. He wanted Bakura to see that he could take care of him just as he had taken care of Ryou since infancy. He loved the man, and was lonely because of it. Bakura tried his hardest, Ryou knew, but for once he felt the need to be a part of those things Bakura hid from him. He didn't care, really, before now. Now was a pivotal moment in their relationship, Ryou had decided. He needed that closure that he was important to Bakura; that the man needed him. He could be good for Bakura.

Ryou wanted Bakura to know that he was his reason for living.

He could feel it.

It beat, like his heart. I t was deep in his chest. It was hot, he knew, and he knew it was pumping blood.

But this was not his heart. It was _His._

Bakura fought the psyche trying to control his mind. He could feel it spreading, trying to merge. Grief had separated and fragmented his soul; grief from long ago suffering and loss at the hands of the pharaoh. He took those broken souls and destroyed one to recreate the other. All kindness has gone away. His soul was poisoned by the literal demons that infested his body, the tainted vessel.

He should have known he couldn't recreate the previous self, not even for that boy's sake…

Ryou got up from the bed tentatively, unsure if he could support himself with his heightened sense of emotion. He unfastened the knee brace; he knew it sickened Bakura. He could walk on his own two feet for his Baka. He could – would – do anything for his Baka.

There was pain, there would always be pain, but Ryou chose to ignore it.

Bakura has spent all fifteen of Ryou's years protecting him, hiding from his all things that would upset the boy. He realized deep down that Bakura was scared, scared that something would irrevocably change and make his feelings change for the man.

He wanted to soothe Bakura. He wanted to hold the man's head against his chest and stoke his hair to allay his fears. He would never never leave his Baka; he would love him forever. Ryou could feel it in his breast by the way the man's words accelerated his heartbeat, and in the pit of his stomach, experienced by the butterflies that flew there. He desired to please his Baka, make the man proud, and in return he flourished beneath the man's praise, grew, blossomed.

Ryou had always loved flowers; he felt himself a seedling in Bakura's grove.

Dejection.

Failure.

Inevitable rejection.

Ryou was slipping through Bakura's fingers, he knew. The boy was growing too swiftly, he was beginning to see Bakura's dark self. He could not stop the manifestation, not now, it had already began. Voices, feelings that did not belong to himself, what was the meaning for these sensations?

What meaning had anything? He needed Ryou, and Ryou was fading. He tried so hard to abate the other psyche, but it came through and controlled him. He shook, he always shook. He felt wetness, sticky and hot. It ran from his ears and his nose faster than he could dash it away. If Ryou saw –

Ryou would not see. He had hurt the boy and scared him. His flower would not follow. His flower would not grow. It was over.

He had lost everything.

Ryou used the door for support as he stepped down into the stair case. Something cold and thick startled him and his foot flew up instantly. When the boy looked down and realized what it was, the sight sickened him.

Blood. He had stepped in blood.

And when he looked down, each step had a quarter sized drop, dried and clotted, made cold in the winter air. It was his Baka's blood. His cold blood that lost all of his heat. The man was sick and wouldn't let his closest take care of him.

Ryou had to sit down to weep.

It couldn't be. He would not allow this to take place.

He would answer any question Ryou posed. He would tell his all of it. And he would destroy the other half of himself.

Ryou would not leave.

He had appeared here and made him real, he was Bakura's reason for living, never to be forgotten. He could not leave. Bakura was forever haunted by his lingering sins, but Ryou brought forth blue skies that dissipated stark gray. Ryou soothed Bakura's troubled spirit and allowed the man to function normally. Without him…

Bakura was hollow and make-believe; he had no purpose, no goals, desires, wants. Ryou supplemented his life, his soul, his heart. He strove to live for this boy, he existed and continued. Each breathe was taken for Ryou. Each thrum of his heart was caused by Ryou.

He needed him. All other things, be they human or substance, anything needed to live was thrown to the wind without Ryou. He denied everything without Ryou.

Denial. Denial. Denial.

Thirty-two.

Fifteen for the steps, seventeen on the kitchen floor.

Thirty-two drops of Bakura that Ryou cleaned on his hands and knees, sobbing all the while and covering with a hundred drops of himself. Tears for blood, red giving way for clear.

When he finished, he collapsed against the linoleum floor in a tiny ball. Memories flooded him. He remembered vaguely Bakura scrubbing the floors on his own hands and knees so that Ryou could crawl as a baby. He remembered his first steps on these floors. He remembered when he was five and broke the sugar jar all across the floor and Bakura not knowing whether to scold Ryou or dry his tears. He remembered every step taken across the floors with his beloved until the criss-crossing patterns had been rubbed bare and no longer existed. His memories of this floor in his home were all happy.

Until now.

Bakura's blood lay under his long finger nails now. He was shut away from the man he loved. His guardian. His safe haven. Bakura was his embodiment of safety and now he couldn't have him for reasons not of his own design.

He was lonely.

He broke again.

Greif and denial gave way to anger.

The white haired demon roared at the top of his lungs in anguish. His heart was broken, and he couldn't alone fix it.

Swoon came crashing and his knees hit the rough concrete. Tears mixed with oil stains as heavy rivulets split open his face. He howled. Howled and moaned as pain seeped through him. On hands and knees, his arms quaked as pain rain through him, sharp pain that started in his chest and darted into his left appendage. He couldn't move, he could do aught but contort his face an sob.

_Ryou…_

Ryou snapped up with a gasp. Sharp pain burned where his heart should be, causing the boy to clench his breast. He was so weak, why?

That noise… whatever it had been it had sent this pain through his body. He wracked his mind and memory to place that sound, so at once familiar and so foreign.

Screaming. It was aggrieved screaming.

"BAKURA!" Ryou screamed in fear, in horror, in concern.

He shoved himself up, wild hair, oversized clothes that were spattered with blood, and harsh tears making him look all the more like his double.

There were arms surrounding him, holding him, arms that shook with soft sobs. He inhaled and was soothed.

_Ryou…_

"Oh, Baka!" the boy choked and squeezed his sentinel closer, "please be okay!"

He couldn't speak. He wasn't sure he was still 'Bakura'.

What if he opened his mouth to speak and he was lost for good? What if in trying to comfort his flower his was plucked from him? If Ryou was to be severed from the root, he could grow no more. It couldn't happen, he wouldn't allow it. He would allow his flower to take root inside his own body and hold the boy forever. Ryou would keep him whole.

Ryou couldn't hide his tears, and at this point it was useless. "Baka, are you okay? What's wrong?"

What was wrong with him? What _wasn't _was more accurate. He was crumbling in his boy's arms, his child, his beloved, his heart. His life was holding life in its arms, he couldn't grasp this reality. He was quiet, still, the only movement the steady, ceaseless tears.

Ryou shook Bakura once, gripping on to the man's biceps with enough force to bruise. He felt nothing. "Bakura! Please!" Ryou sobbed. "Why do you never answer my questions!?"

A moment of clarity passed over the elder man, and he pushed his flower back to smile at him. He looked serene, gently smiling and eyes half-lidded in contrast to Ryou's scared, wide gaze. The boy was small, so small, he mused. He could snap him. He would never.

"Ask me any question and I will answer it."

Ryou glanced up through long lashes, wreathing a stellar image of his protector in teary thorns. He looked so otherworldly, ethereal, a gorgeous carat of undying affection that almost pained the boy to gaze upon. _My sweet reason for living… _Ryou could see these words at Bakura's still lips, pale and wide, accustomed to his smooth forehead from all this kisses the man had pressed against his soft hair line as he grew.

Any question. Ryou could ask whatever his heart desired, as though Bakura placed power in his tiny, trembling hands. He didn't want power; he favored his submission to Bakura, the strong branches of the man's control casting gentle shade on his slight form. It was comforting and right. But for all of Bakura's serenity, Ryou knew there was trouble behind his eyes, sorrow, pain, some kin of those dark emotions the man refused to let the boy see. He wouldn't allow his curiosity to hurt Bakura, his well spring. In the back of his mind, one question itched. He hadn't had the chance to ask it; he had been interrupted.

"Bakura, how old are you?"

Arms tightened on the boy, holding him against his breast, his lips at Ryou's ear. "I'm sorry, my beloved, but I couldn't tell you that. You would never believe me… but I couldn't lie to you, never, no."

Ryou whined in his arms, "Baka, what's wrong-"

The man's voice dropped to a low hiss as something began to burn against Ryou's heart. "Would you believe me if I told you I was immortal? I walked the earth when it was born, I walked the sands of Egypt."

Ryou pushed back away from Bakura, crying out in pain. When he was far enough away from Bakura's chest he could see the man's permanent adornment emitting a strong gold light. When… how… he had never seen this thing glow… and Bakura wore it every waking day and never took it off. Ryou skin was pinked from the burns the device gave him. "Bakura!"

His cries and gasps didn't faze Bakura, he was too far gone, it was over. Life was over.

Everything had to change.

"I am five thousand years old, my beloved. And you won't accept me as the way I am but strove to hide and forget. But I cannot lose you, ever. You are my reason for _existing_, Ryou."

The Sennen Ring began to thrash violently between them, bleaching out their features, drowning out Ryou's screams.

"I love you, Bakura! I want to be your everything!" Sobs of fear and emotional catharsis split from the boys pink lips, his body wracking against Bakura's.

"Oh, Ryou, my dork. You already were."

Bakura closed his eyes and found calm inside, found the strength to continue. Ryou clung to his biceps and shivered, but he was going to be alright. No one could ever harm him again. Bakura's lips parted, softly, his tongue darting out to wet them. Ryou slumped in his arms, strength fading. The pull of the Ring was too much, too harsh for his tiny body. His eyes fought to stay open, and he watched his beloved descend upon him.

Bakura gently pressed his lips into Ryou's, taking and consuming. He swallowed down screams, pain, remorse, his own guilt, his own hate, his own anger. He swallowed as the Sennen Ring blustered about his breast, as it burned through false human flesh, as it burned down bridges that he could never cross again.

Ryou faded, his eyes closing, and burned into his retinas was the image of his beloved, his guardian, and in the end, the man who had saved his life and made it possible for him to exist.

Ryou would live forever within his soul, his heart, his body, and he could handle that. He truly was a reason for living.

"_I love you… always." _

"_**I saw its birth. I watched it grow. I felt it change me. I took the life, I ate it slow, Now it consumes me…" – The Leaving Song pt. II **_

_**THE END.**_

**10/16/12 at 10:05 am**

**3 **

**A/N: God fuck. God. Fuck. I mean it. That was an ordeal. I've never written that much. I began this at the end of my sophomore year, around 5-4-11, and I'm headed into my senior year. Hopefully this author's note will tie up any loose ends.**

**Did anyone catch the Days of Our Lives reference? Or the Super Mario Bros. one?**

**Chapter 13: Mr. Karita IS an actual character on Yu-Gi-Oh! He does, in fact, bully Ryou about his femininity. But it was only in the manga/season zero. I found out about it when reading a character bio on Bakura to refresh myself, and just HAD to add it to my story. It's a really shaky intergration. Oh, and Kiyoteru is a vocaloid/pervert who has a kajillion songs about bedding (or in this case desking) his students. It was a name for a quick bind. **

**Oh lord I'm thinking of Papa to Kiss in the Dark as I try to explain their feelings. **

**EDIT: I honestly did not expect to end on this chapter. I started writing this with the ending in mind.I didn't plan, organize, draft, anything. I just wrote and this is how it came out. **

**To Winnie: Oh I wish that the dark skinned man was Marik. I tried so many different ways to work in Marik, including Marik transferring in and becoming Ryou's bff (or luuver~). But I said this story would be yaoi free, and the time line is in between season zero and the beginning of the english anime, so there was no logical way for Marik to pop up. (Ex, season one in america: Joey beats the shit out of Yugi, steals a piece of the Sennen Puzzle, the they have some heart to heart -idr, I watched this shit in like, 2001- joey dives in the water and the gets the piece, and they become BFFs, the Ryou Bakura transfers in. Ta-Da) Maybe I'll have a chance to fix the gayda- Ring of his in another story.**

**Why I say Sennen: No, I'm not a hardcore fan of the Japanese version. I'm not even old enough to be. I watched the poorly translated 4KIDS version and LOVED it. It was my first show. I didn't even know it was anime. I was just so... AWESOME. Joey Wheeler was the first guy who made me feel as though the world was floating away from me. My most vivid memory is of me laying in the floor of my old house gripping onto my bunk bed because I felt the whole was spinning, from being so in love Joey. Joey and Mai were the first couple I ever shipped, (I never knew the word shipped growing up, obviously). Yu-Gi-Oh! was a huge part my childhood. SO WHY SENNEN? Because I absolutely ca spell Millenium. Mullenium... Mellenium... I literally fuck it up so bad that even spell check can't tell what I'm trying to say. *gets out the dictionary, 12th ed.* M – I – L – L – E – N – N – I – U – M. Know what else I can spell. U. So I stuck with Sennen.**

**Why flowers are my main metaphor: When I started writing this I was hardcore into the shonen-ai Silver Diamond. It was in our school library. 'Nuff said. And flowers are preeety.**

**To MyFalseTruth: I FUCKING LOVE YOU *pounce* Thank you so much for your in depth break downs of my chapters, my ideas, and for putting your own two cents in. When I got your review for chapter 11, it literally helped me get off my ass and churn out chapter 12. Your PMs (lol, the puns) were delightful. And you gave ideas~~~~ 3 *nuzzles* I cannot express my gratitude to you enough. OI! I'll draw you something~~ find me on deviant art. (demonkitsune31 on there as well. My icon is Soubi from Loveless).**

**Goodness this is overwhelming when trying to sort out everything I want to say. I shocked many of my friends by writing something that wasn't yaoi. The teased me relentlessly about Bakura and Ryou's relationship in my story. In RL, I looooove this shipping~ The masturbation aspect is so... yummy. But Hikari Marik x Yami Bakura are my main, thank you LittleKuriboh. And I discovered Seto x Joey... and I totally ship Yugi's Dark Magician with the red/tan/silver D. Magician from the Battle City arc owned by that weird Trap Master dude who chained their ankles and turned on circular saws...**

**I apologize for rambling.**

**BUT THANK YOU TO EAVERYONE WHO R&R'd! Questions, PM me. Kisses and nuzzles to: Winnie, MyFalseTruth, Zukofan2005, pancakes-are-not-for-throwing, Hayley, xXAnachronIsmEpsIceXx (looved ur review, I laughed so hard), Lazy Gaga (whose review alert woke me at 1:38 am, prompted me to jot down a quick 266 words for the library scene and then roll back over and crash – you made my hear soar –)**

**Hugs to: Everyone who read, followed, liked, favorite, all that jazz. I wrote down each of your user names to thank you, but I lost that damn list somewhere…**

_**Again, ten thousand thanks**_


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